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tigerkirby215 · 4 years

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5e Frank West build (Dead Rising)

(Screenshot of Dead Rising 4 - Game by Capcom)

“I’ve covered wars ya know.”

In an attempt to branch out my builds beyond D&D I had a look through my Steam library for other games with interesting characters. While most of the games I play have pretty broad characters (Killing Floor, XCOM, Void Bastards... btw play Void Bastards it’s good) I eventually came across Dead Rising and all I could think is... “Yes.”

Frank West! Forever charismatic journalist, amateur craftsman, minor wrestling star, major anti-government conspirator, and part-time zombie. For “just a normal dude” Frank is capable of some pretty extraordinary feats, going up against countless zombie hoards with nothing but his wits and the products you’d find at your local shopping center... Helps that he can drop kick all day long without getting tired.

GOALS

Anything’s a Weapon - The core appeal of Dead Rising is the ability to use anything you find as a weapon, which Frank obviously needs to do.

Duct Tape it or Die - While it was more of Chuck’s thing Frank borrowed the ability to craft Combo Weapons and does it quite well. And obviously the only reason he survived a day in Willamette was his ability to weaponize golf clubs, sandwich plates, and cartons of orange juice.

I am the Ultimate Best - Frank is no pushover in his own right with some WWE superstar smack-downs and the endurance to run a marathon without getting tired. Because the original Dead Rising was made before stamina meters were a thing.

RACE

Frank is amazingly just human, and while the ending of DR4 says otherwise we’ll stick with Variant Human for now. You get an increase in two ability scores of your choice: increase your Constitution and Intelligence. You also get a Skill of your choice and you should take Athletics to run through the entire mall all night long. You finally get a Feat: take Tavern Brawler for proficiency in Improvised weapons and some unarmed damage and increase your Constitution again. And take whatever language it really doesn’t matter.

ABILITY SCORES

15; STRENGTH - You need to be able to fight off a zombie trying to bite your face; being able to chuck them 10 yards is an added bonus.

14; CONSTITUTION - Frank takes a lot of damage in the Dead Rising games. Getting shot, run over, sliced up with a chainsaw, and receiving countless claw and teeth marks and still being able to march on takes a lot of hardiness.

13; INTELLIGENCE - Knowing how to attach chainsaws to a kayak paddle “safely” takes a certain degree of know-how, and you helped Isabella create a cure for zombism! But above all it’s a requirement to multiclass so...

12; DEXTERITY - Shrugging off a hoard of zombies trying to grab at you takes some evasive ability.

10; CHARISMA - Not extremely in-character (feel free to swap DEX and CHA if you want better roleplay but worse AC) but we unfortunately don’t need it for this build.

8; WISDOM - Jumping off a helicopter into a mall full of zombies wasn’t exactly the best choice, and I doubt I could call anyone who walks into a hardware store full of decapitated bodies “wise.”

BACKGROUND

Unfortunately there’s no Reporter background for 5e but thankfully Celebrity Adventurer’s Scion from Acquisitions Incorporated is pretty close to what we need. The main feature of Name Dropping will let everyone know that you’re Frank West, and that you’ve covered wars you know.

Replace the Performance proficiency with Insight but keep Perception to find the perfect shot. You also get two languages of your choice (pick whatever) and proficiency with a Disguise Kit to try on all sorts of clothes while surviving the zombie apocalypse.

(Artwork from Project X Zone - Owned by Capcom)

THE BUILD

LEVEL 1 - ARTIFICER 1

We’re going to start this build off as an Artificer to get the ability to craft things as soon as possible. You get two skills from the Artificer list: take Investigation for some investigative journalism and Medicine to know what brand of orange juice to drink to cure all that ails ya. You also get an artisan’s tool of your choice and Smith’s Tools would be what you use to make most of your Combo Weapons.

You also get Magical Tinkering which lets you pick up a grab bag of random stuff from various stores. You can touch a tiny, non-magical object with your tools as an action to give it a variety of effects that are listed in the ability’s description. The effect last indefinably but you can have a number of them equal to your Intelligence modifier.

Speaking of Intelligence modifier that’s what we use for our Spellcasting. You get two cantrips of your choice and while you’ll get the ability to swap them out later on start with Mending to duct tape any of your weapons if they’re going to break and Light to turn your camera’s light on. But feel free to choose whatever cantrips you think will help and since Artificer’s get a lot of choice with their spellcasting I’ll just list all the cantrips and how I’d reflavor them for Frank:

Acid Splash could be you throwing a bottle of something nasty at the zombies.

Create Bonfire could be a Molotov.

Dancing Lights could be a toy helicopter or something similar providing the light.

Firebolt is a gun.

Frostbite or Ray of Frost could be a combo weapon with a toy gun and a fire extinguisher, chilling your foes.

Guidance or Resistance is a fatherly mentor slap on the back for good luck. <3

Mage Hand could be a drone, or alternatively one of those grabbing-claw toys that Nintendo used to make. Similar idea with Thorn Whip.

Magic Stone... chuck some shit at the enemy like you do in MvC.

Message could be a walkie-talkie or a cell phone.

Poison Spray is bad don’t use it.

Prestidigitation is your grab bag of stuff from the toy store.

Shocking Grasp or Thunderclap could be you weaponizing your camera flash.

Spare the Dying is emergency medical care.

Can you tell I like Artificer? Because I really like Artificer. Anyways you also get two spells of your choice: Cure Wounds will let you or an ally guzzle some life-giving OJ and Catapult will let you grab something heavy and chuck it at a hoard! But much like with the cantrips Artificers are prepared spellcasters so you can choose your spells at the end of every long rest, giving you the ability to choose what weapons you want at the start of the day.

LEVEL 2 - BARBARIAN 1

Quickly bouncing over to Barbarian for two reasons. The first is to get Unarmored Defense equal to 10 + your Dexterity and your Constitution. We can still use Medium Armor (and I’d argue you probably should use that currently) but while the knight armor is a post-game unlock and you usually wear a leather jacket (leather armor) you can skip the padding and let your muscles protect you. The other reason however is for Martial weapon proficiency - you need to use everything you can find and Frank swings a katana as well as a baseball bat.

But you also get Rage which lets you scream up at the heavens about the government and get some work done. While raging you have advantage on Strength checks and saving throws (both of which are needed for grapples), do extra damage with strength weapons (including your fists from Tavern Brawler!), and resist bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage. It lasts for 1 minute but ends early if you end a turn without attacking someone or getting hit. You can also end it as a bonus action which you might need to do because you can’t cast spells while it’s active, so no OJ while you smash faces. You can Rage twice before having to take a long rest.

LEVEL 3 - ARTIFICER 2

Back on the Artificer train we finally get our Combo Weapons, or rather our Artificer Infusions. You know 4 infusions and can have 2 active at a time. You can choose which infusions you want at the end of a long rest so pick-and-choose what you need to fight the local psychopath.

For your Known Infusions pick the following:

Enhanced Weapon lets you stick some knives on the end of a broom to make it do more damage.

An Enhanced Arcane Focus meanwhile lets you improve whatever fire-spitter someone might be using to make it spit a little more fire.

An Alchemy Jug lets you carry around a variety of drinks (or mayonnaise) to mix in a blender for some juices and cocktails.

And the Pole of Collapsing from Xanathar’s Guide to Everything can actually be used by you as a weapon effectively since you have improvised weapon proficiency from Tavern Brawler. A 10 foot quarter staff is nothing to scoff at, and you can do a good Zero impression!

Truthfully though Artificers have a huge list of items they can choose from and I’d suggest taking whatever infusions your team asks for that would help them. The strength of Artificer lies in its versatility, and while Frank’s mostly alone in Dead Rising don’t let the Survivors in your party go unarmed.

LEVEL 4 - ARTIFICER 3

3rd level Artificers get their Artificer Specialty and Alchemist is perfect for someone who makes combo cocktails as well as combo weapons.

Truthfully though the reason we’re going for Alchemist is because it’s the only one that doesn’t have a summon. The new Armorer subclass also works but that serves more for if you want to play as Exo-Suit Frank.

As an Alchemist you can craft an Experimental Elixir after a long rest with a set of Alchemist’s Supplies (which you also gain proficiency with.) You’ve got six possible cocktails to make: Healing is self-explanatory, Swiftness lets them run faster, Resilience makes them harder to hit, Boldness lets them hit a little harder, Flight lets them... fly (talk about fizzy lifting drinks!), and Transformation lets you get your zombie on with the Alter Self spell.

You get one after a long rest but you can craft another one by spending a spell slot of first level of higher. It’s up to DM’s interpretation if you can do this while raging but since it’s described that you make the elixir “magically” I’d argue against it. That, and you need some time with the blender to make juice.

Also on subject of spells you get Healing Word to shout some words of encouragement to your allies and Ray of Sickness to shoot them with the B.F.G and make them puke their guts out. You also get another spell slot and Grease lets you throw a bottle of shampoo on the floor to make your enemies slip and fall.

You also get The Right Tool for the Job which lets you quickly pull together any Artisan’s tools you might need. You need an hour to make the tools (which can be done over a rest) and they last until you use this feature again. Can’t find a maintenance closet? Just make the stuff on the fly!

LEVEL 5 - ARTIFICER 4

Grabbing an Ability Score Improvement or rather a Feat since that uneven Strength score is bugging me: take the Athlete feat with an increase to Strength so you can run after the truth or away from a hoard.

You can also prepare another spell like Identify, so you can now exactly what you’re taking pictures of.

LEVEL 6 - BARBARIAN 2

Now that we’ve got our combo weapons and our cocktails it’s time to learn some wrestling moves. Level 2 Barbarians get Reckless Attack, giving yourself Advantage on attacks with Strength weapons but giving the enemy Advantage to hit you. A piledriver might get the job done but it does leave you wide open.

You also get Danger Sense, giving you advantage on Dexterity saving throws against effects you can see. Makes sense since you can dodge bullets if you see them coming but can still get outplayed by your protegee.

LEVEL 7 - BARBARIAN 3

3rd level Barbarians get their Primal Path and Path of the Totem Warrior is perfect for anyone who wants to bear hug their enemies. You get Spirit Seeker to cast the Beast Sense and Speak with Animals spells as rituals because this is meant to be the “naturalist” Barbarian but what we’re really here for is the Totem Spirit. You’re more than welcome to choose Bear like I know most people will but the most in-character option would be the spirit of the Eagle. Zombies have disadvantage to hit you if you run past them while raging and you can also Dash as a bonus action while raging, letting you run through a hoard of zombies and only suffer minimal damage. You can also Rage one more time before needing a long rest, adding up to 3 times total.

LEVEL 8 - BARBARIAN 4

4th level Barbarians get an Ability Score Improvement, and how about we finally get those wrestling moves? The Grappler feat gives you Advantage on attacks against enemies you grapple and lets you use your action to try to pin your opponent. If you do both you and the creature you’re grappling are restrained until the grapple ends.

LEVEL 9 - BARBARIAN 5

5th level Barbarians get an Extra Attack so you can combo two hits instead of one. You also get Fast Movement which increases your movement speed by 10 as long as you aren’t wearing Heavy Armor. The Megaman suit isn’t exactly aerodynamic...

LEVEL 10 - BARBARIAN 6

At level 6 Totem Warriors get Aspect of the Beast and the aspect of the Bear is perfect for anyone who wants to lift a zombie over their head and swing them around. Your carrying capacity for combo weapons is doubled and you have Advantage on Strength checks to push, pull, lift, or break objects. Technically this doesn’t include grappling and technically you can’t pick up people that you’ve grappled, but if you have a cool DM this would totally be the feature to let you chuck a zombie at another zombie. And an extra use of Rage (adding up to 4 times total) will definitely help with that zombie chucking.

(Artwork by Capcom)

LEVEL 11 - ARTIFICER 5

Now that we’ve got all the WWE we need it’s time to improve our combo weapons. 5th level Alchemists get Alchemical Savant which lets you add your Intelligence modifier to any spell that heals or does acid, fire, necrotic, or poison damage. Speaking of which you now get access to second level spells, and the Alchemist list gives you Flaming Sphere which lets you kick a burning trash can at your enemies, and Melf’s Acid Arrow lets you chuck a Queen at an enemy’s face and have them sting them a bunch.

LEVEL 12 - ARTIFICER 6

6th level Artificers get Tool Expertise, letting you double your proficiency bonus with any tools you know how to use. You can also prepare another spell like Pyrotechnics, letting you pop firecrackers in a zombie’s face to either blind them or use the smoke to cover your escape from a psychopath. You can also make two Experimental Elixirs are the start of the day instead of one.

But most importantly you learn two new Infusions and the number of Infusions you can have up at a time increases by one: Radiant Weapon finally lets you weaponize your camera flash and use your reaction to try to blind someone that hits you. Cloak of Elvenkind meanwhile makes it easier for you to sneak around and take pictures of military men talking about covering up the zombie outbreak. The government; it’s always the government...

LEVEL 13 - ARTIFICER 7

7th level Artificers get Flash of Genius. If you or one of your journalism students are in a jam you can use your reaction to add your Intelligence modifier to an ability check or saving throw, and can do this a number of times equal to your Intelligence modifier. Speaking of which...

LEVEL 14 - ARTIFICER 8

8th level Artificers get another Ability Score Improvement and we’re not getting Intelligence and are instead getting Constitution for more health and better unarmored defense.

You can also prepare another spell and you can’t go wrong with Heat Metal. Get a barbecue lighter and stick it in a zombie’s face!

LEVEL 15 - ARTIFICER 9

At 9th level Alchemists get Restorative Reagents. You buff your juice mixing power so the drinks give temporary hitpoints equal to 2d6 + your intelligence modifier, and you also carry some Zombrex with you to cast Lesser Restoration a number of times equal to your Intelligence modifier. Lesser Restoration won’t cure a zombie infection but I’m sure it can delay it for 24 hours.

You also get 3rd level spell slots now and as an Alchemist you always have Gaseous Form and Mass Healing Word prepared... I have no reason why Frank can turn into a cloud of gas: is he a vampire? Is it nanomachines? Are we giving a regular guy the ability to cast spells? Yes.

LEVEL 16 - ARTIFICER 10

10th level Artificers get Magic Item Adept, letting them attune to 4 magic items at once and letting you craft common and uncommon magic items in a quarter of the time using a quarter of the gold.

But more importantly you get two more known Infusions (and one more prepared infusion) and it’s finally time to fix that Intelligence! The Headband of Intellect sets your Intelligence score to 19, and the Gauntlets of Ogre Power do the same to your Strength. It’s not perfect but you’ve always been rough around the edges.

You get another cantrip so I’d suggest grabbing Firebolt for a backup pistol, but with the Headband of Intellect on your head you can prepare three more spells!

Elemental Weapon will let you turn a weapon into a +1 weapon and make it deal an extra d4 acid, cold, fire, lightning, or thunder damage.

Haste lets you speed up your combos with some X-Factor.

And bouncing back to level 2: Rope Trick will let you open up a bathroom so you can save and take a break.

Note: If you’re starting at level 16 (for some reason) and want to give your character a better stat array an updated stat distribution will be posted after this build goes live.

(UMvC3 screenshot compilation by kiraDaidohji on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 17 - ARTIFICER 11

At level 11 with Artificer you get access to a Spell Storing Item. When you finish a Long Rest you can touch a weapon or one of your infusions to put a spell of first or second level into it as long as it takes an action to cast, even if you don’t have the spell prepared. Whoever’s holding it can use their action to cast the spell using your spellcasting modifier, and if it requires concentration they concentrate on it instead of you. They can cast the spell a number of times equal to twice your Intelligence modifier (so 8 times if you’re wearing the Headband of Intellect.)

I’m not going to tell you what spell to put in the Spell Storing Item - look through the spell list yourself or search online for the best spell for the job. An Artificer’s strength is versatility and I can only do so much themeing without playing your character for you. (Pro tip though: Blur is god tier if you can give it to a Fighter or someone else with high AC who can concentrate on it.)

LEVEL 18 - ARTIFICER 12

12th level Artificers get another Ability Score improvement: cap off your Constitution for maximum hardiness, AC, and Constitution saves. Last thing you want is to lose concentration on a spell and then lose your liquor afterwards.

You can also prepare another spell such as Revivify to quickly stick a hot dog in someone’s mouth and bring them back from the dead.

LEVEL 19 - ARTIFICER 13

13th level Artificers get 4th level spell slots and Alchemists get Blight and Death Ward always prepared. Zombify an area, or alternatively stop an ally from going down to zombies. Or yourself: you going down to zombies would suck too.

LEVEL 20 - ARTIFICER 14

Our capstone is the 14th level of Artificer for Magic Item Savant, allowing you to attune to up to 5 magic items and use them regardless of any restrictions the item might have.

But most importantly you get more Infusions and it should be mentioned that you can replace old known Infusions when you level up: replace your Gauntlets of Ogre Power with a Belt of Hill Giant’s Strength which is objectively better in every way. You can also make Bracers of Defense to further increase your AC and... hell, why not a Ring of Protection too? But once again I have to recommend you listen to your party for what they want you to make: don’t hoard your Infusions or the OJ.

FINAL BUILD

PROS

Won’t Stop until I’m Dead - For my first tank build on this blog Frank is a remarkably good tank. Maxed out Constitution with Barbarian levels means your health will easily go over 200, and Unarmored Defense combined with Bracers of Protection and a Ring of Protection can put your AC close to 20, and you can still wield a two-handed weapon.

You think you’re better than me? - You’re not the only one on the team who can be awesome with this build. You have a lot of utility spells and can help the team survive with your elixirs. Just remember the crafting recipes for juice.

Crislip's Home Saloon - You can use any weapon you get your hands on, including the kitchen sink. No matter the class or race restriction you can use a weapon. Even if you’re unarmed Tavern Brawler lets you grab whatever you find and make use of it, or resort to your fists if it comes to it.

CONS

Wrestling is Fake - Grappling isn’t exactly practical; neither are improvised weapons. A lot of the features that we grab are done entirely for the sake of roleplay, and you’d be far better off taking more practical Feats or more ASIs.

PP - This build is subpar until level 16 and only really reaches its true potential at level 20. While it’s great to theorycraft these types of builds I know that most campaigns don’t reach level 20.

Grrrrrrr - Rage is nice but it’s tough to use it in this build. Not only does it stop you from casting spells or concentrating but you’ll lose your rage if you don’t get hit or don’t hit someone else.

But we all start out somewhere kid. Fight the good fight, save the civilians, take good pictures, and maybe someday you’ll be in a war someone else covers. And be sure to drink healthy orange juice and pass up on the whisky - the last thing you want is to puke in the middle of a combo.

(Minecraft skin found on superminecraftskins.com)

#DnD 5e #dnd build #dnd guide #dead rising #dead rising frank west #frank west #dnd multiclass #dnd artificer #dnd barbarian

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heroacademia-fam · 5 years

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Fluent

Summary: In which Present Mic finally learns how much Class 1-A has come to understand Aizawa.

Word Count: 1367

A/N:And I'm back! Sorry it took so long to post a new story, but it's finally summer where I am so hopefully I'll be able to write more soon! As always, all criticism and feedback is loved and appreciated! I can't begin to explain how much your amazing feedback on the previous stories motivated me so much to write this one!

Also, please feel free to send asks or messages! I don’t bite and messages are like super warm hugs ! I’d love to get to know you all more too !

Thank you and I hope you all have great days! Plus ultra!

Disclaimer: I don’t own Boku no Hero Academia!

Hizashi always enjoyed training with Class 1-A.

It was nothing short of a treat for him - battling it out with this next generation of heroes - and the fact that they provided a genuine challenge for him was definitely a plus.

And today was no exception.

Hizashi always found "Capture the Flag" to be a fun training exercise, but it was even more fun when you threw in a few more teachers into the mix as the class' opponents. And being given the chance to scream at teens non-stop as he defended the flag - perched on some peak like a villain straight out of a video game? He wasn't ashamed to say he enjoyed it way more than he probably should have.

The class did well in the exercise - Midoriya's ability to strategise was particularly noteworthy - but the vocal hero knew that what really sealed their victory against the pro-heroes was their ability to cooperate with one another. Even Bakugō was learning how to work in a team, and he considered that a victory in and of itself.

Hizashi's gaze rested on the class - on twenty students panting heavily as sweat dripped from their faces and pooled on their collars. They stood there, with hands on their knees as they tried to calm their racing hearts, still winded from the exertion of their latest exercise. Their hero costumes seemed to suit them better every time Hizashi saw them, and at the thought, he couldn't bite back his smile.

He wasn't going to lie; he was proud. Heck, they even made him go a bit hoarse towards the end, and that was no easy feat. And if he was proud, he was certain his best friend was as well.

He had to be; Shouta was their homeroom teacher after all, and this was his idea in the first place.

The blonde-haired man turned to face the Erasure hero to confirm his suspicions, only to find his friend seemingly more interested in the notes on his clipboard. He wasn't even glancing at his class, and Hizashi had to resist the urge to sigh.

Aizawa scanned the notes once - twice - thrice for good measure - before finally putting them down and fixing his gaze on his class. Immediately, the majority of the class perked up at their homeroom teacher's observation - many smiling (albeit exhaustedly) in eager anticipation of his assessment.

The underground hero gave his class a once-over before he finally spoke.

"The day after tommorow we'll be having endurance training. I expect that all of you will take the time until then to rest and recover. We'll be focusing on using your quirks for longer periods of time with shorter intervals in between, so be prepared."

He gave his class one last inspection before nodding once, firmly.

"Dismissed."

Without another word, the Erasure hero turned around and began to walk away from the training grounds, back to UA's main building.

And really, Hizashi wanted to bury his face in his hands in exasperation.

Couldn't his friend have afforded the class a single word of praise? A simple "good job" or "you all did well"? The vocal hero knew UA didn't take to coddling its students, but even he knew a bit of positive reinforcement was in order. The kids did quite well, even by the school's standards, and they deserved a pat on the back.

And he would give it to them.

"Heyyyyy little listeners! You all did a great job a while ago! Gotta say, that last strategy of yours caught us all off guard, so keep up the good work!"

Hizashi finished it off with a thumbs up for good measure.

"Y'know…" he added with the slightest hesitation. "I'm sure Shouta thinks you all did a great job too. He has a funny way of showing it, but he's definitely proud of you all."

And it was true. Hizashi didn't miss the flash of pride in his friend's eyes, and the imminent training session he had planned was a sign he believed they were capable of being stronger. It was his way of showing that he was proud and that he cared - and to the blonde man it was clear as day.

But his class didn't know that.

They weren't fluent in Aizawa as he was, and he was worried that the class would eventually come to resent their seemingly disinterested and aloof teacher. His worries, however, were apparently for naught. As soon as he finished his statement, many members of the class seemed to laugh. He would be lying if he said it didn't confuse him a little.

"It's okay, Mic-sensei! We know!" Uraraka said with a smile, and her classmates nodded in agreement.

And okay… Hizashi was a little surprised.

They… knew? They could read Aizawa too? Come to think of it, they didn't seem the least bit disappointed when Shouta dismissed them - and if he remembered right, their smiles even seemed to widen when their teacher finished speaking. But that was… was that possible? Did his friend's class really-

"Aizawa-sensei doesn't tell us he's happy with our work outright, kero," Asui chimed in, interrupting the pro-hero's train of thought. "But you can tell he's glad with the way he acts."

"Sensei nodding in that firm way of his is a good sign too," Ojiro added. "It means he's satisfied with our work."

"I believe Aizawa-sensei aims to push us to greater heights by assigning rigorous training activities, in line with UA's philisophy!" Iida announced, arms chopping in his patented, robotic manner. "Such dedication from its faculty is only to be expected from an institution as grand as UA!”

Mouth slightly hanging open in shock, Hizashi could see Bakugou crossing his arms from the back. The Explosion-user scoffed.

"Tch. Aizawa-sensei isn't fucking touchy-feely-"

"-But he has his own manly way of showing us he's proud of us!" Kirishima finished with a smile.

One by one, the rest of the class started piping in, and Hizashi could only listen in surprise and awe.

"He doesn't really have to say it-"

"-he even smiles really small sometimes-!"

"-though he tries to hide his tiny smiles in his scarf-!"

"-I mean, yeah, he's strict, but that's just how he is-"

"-it's not really an issue-"

"-I think it's kind of cool-"

"-And no matter what," Midoriya said finally - smiling at his English teacher with a grin shone with the surest of confidence, "You can always see it in Aizawa-sensei's eyes."

At Izuku's words, the class nodded in agreement.

And Hizashi was struck speechless.

How was it possible that this class learned to read his best friend so quickly and so accurately? That they seemed to understand the Erasure hero in ways others didn't even seem to be capable of after knowing him for longer? He knew they were perceptive, but this… this was on a whole different level. Shouta's mask of indifference and gruffness hadn't pushed them away in the slightest, and what's more, they even seemed to accept their homeroom teacher for exactly who he was - learning to read between the lines instead of asking him to be more obvious.

It was a concept he couldn't wrap his mind around entirely, even after he made it back to the faculty lounge. But as he saw Aizawa grading homework - pen tapping quietly against the paper sheets - he walked up to his friend and announced without preamble,

"You're lucky to have your class."

Aizawa scoffed at his words, but Hizashi didn't miss the fondness concealed in the sound. He didn't miss the way his friend's eyes flicked to the class picture on his desk, either, before onyx orbs locked onto his.

The underground hero's voice was unwavering; definite; sure.

"I know."

And Hizashi smiled - certain that he did.

(He could see it in his friend's eyes, after all.)

#bnha #aizawa shouta #dadzawa #eraserhead fanfic #my hero academia #fluff #present mic

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phxse-shifter · 5 years

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Bones [Kaito / Sharon - Chapter 3]

Summary: In the Midas Group, scandals and confrontations are the norm and Kaito is immediately thrown into just how harsh working for the elusive and dangerous Dr. X is. One thing leads to another and he ends up partners with Sharon, who’s more than willing to help him become a powerful figure in the Midas Group. Told in Kaito’s POV.

Chapter 3: Kaito meets Dr. Elaine, the cruel wife of Dr. X for the second time, and stands his ground against her.

“To show belief then instantly revoke it without a proper analysis is not honorable.”

. . .

“You actively chose to work for Dr. X. No matter the desperation you had and your motif, you chose to do this when there were other options you could have ventured to. Do not presume to think yourself innocent and incapable of cruelty.”

Her words played over and over in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I knew she was right. There was nothing that was kind or sweet about me if I were willing to say “fuck it” to every other opportunity and choose the cruelest person to work for. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time. If I wanted to be noticed, or if I just wanted recognition. In the end, he gave me a chance and if I don’t make things right, I’ll be useless again.

I was around people who didn’t believe cybernetics were useful or meaningful. Traditional people who thought that altering one’s body was a sin—that it went against God. I was constantly ridiculed. Attacked. I was a sham even to my own parents—so I left those people, and found small facilities to work at so I could hone my skill. It led to me making all sorts of devices to help others and myself. Then, a month before the place I worked at let me go, I did my greatest project. I altered my own body.

I used myself as a test subject. I put powerful cybernetics into my own skin, giving me a variety of abilities. I could even fight if I wanted to. Do I dare to reveal that? No. I want them to think I can’t. I want them to think I can’t protect myself. Then, when the time is right, I will reveal that little secret of mine and I’ll enjoy the look on their shocked faces.

When I left my previous facility, they turned against me as well after they learned that I did alter my body. They made it so I was blacklisted. I was unable to find work, even when I developed the ability to hide my cybernetics. Being blacklisted was hell. Then, I found Dr. X—it was a little bit of both. He found me as well. He knew me and my projects. I didn’t know too much about him at the time but when he revealed he was the creator of the Genius League, the game tournament players could win for a hefty sum of money, I was shocked. This was the same tournament that received controversy because most—if not all—of it’s winners “mysteriously disappeared.” It was always on the media, and I was standing face to face with the creator in this moment.

He said he was looking for potential employees, but could find none. I wasn’t surprised considering the Genius League controversies. It was heard that Dr. X did have a secret facility in which he had employees, but no one could ever find it.I offered my assistance on the spot. I didn’t care about the conspiracies. If Dr. X knew me, he would surely let me work for him—and he did. I was hired in the middle of a sidewalk, as soon as dawn was turning into dusk, and he gave me an address.

“Make sure no one follows you,” he warned me.

When I arrived to the location, he gave me an overview of what I would be doing. He needed inventions and devices that would help him achieve his goal. The conspiracies surrounding the Genius League were correct. He oversaw the kidnapping and use of the winners for his genetic projects. If they were supernaturals, it was a plus—and worse for the winner. They wouldn’t die, they would be used as his personal experiments for his will to come to fruition. They would be tortured, their powers studied, and if they became useless, it was only then they would be graced with death.

I started by creating what I normally would, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t interested in things that would help people, he was interested in the things that helped control others. The things that hurt. I never made any devices that were meant to harm, so I have no experience in that. Unfortunately, I have to get it soon. That’s why he put me with Gagliardi, and not even a full month later, he’s ready to disavow me. My inventions take time, and if I don’t have the proper time, it’s going to end in failure.

I know that my body alteration abilities could provide some use to him, but I’m not ready to reveal that. I don’t want to be his experiment. I constitute as “supernatural.” I won’t be able to bear that. I was hiding my cybernetics on my body just as I did before. My left hand and most of my back, even near my neck, would have been a brilliant purple, but since I was able to hide it, I appeared as normal. No one needed to know the weak, useless Dr. Daichi had altered his own body and made himself completely capable of power. No, not yet, at least.

There was a time I thought I chose the wrong job. That I was completely insane for choosing to work for Dr. X. Now I think otherwise. This will be fun, but I have to be careful. First I have to make something so profound Dr. X will get off my back—as well as Dr. Elaine. I would rather not have to speak or see with her again. To be around her isn’t something I would want frequently. All I have to do is be endurant. Put everything into this. All of the things that I learned, my struggles to get where I am now, I have to take all of that, and bend it to my absolute will. I know that I can make something truly powerful.

What could sate Dr. X…? I’ve heard rumors. Nothing could please Dr. X. He was insatiable. You could come close but he would still always judge. Like he did yesterday. If it weren’t for Dr. Elaine, I would have been gone. I should at least thank her, despite my growing fear of her. Though, I didn’t know what part of the base she would usually be in. I was on my way back to the lab I shared with Gagliardi now anyway, so I would just ask her.

When I enter, I see her working intensely. She stops to turn and look at me.

“Hey,” she greets. “I know I needed you to do some things today, but Dr. Elaine wants to see you. She’ll be towards the lounge.”

Oh, what a shocking turn of events.

“Alright. I just wanted to ask you something, though, before I go.”

“Be quick,” Sharon tells me. “She doesn’t like it when you’re late.”

I wanted to ask, possibly, what Dr. X would want, if she would help me create something, together, to please him. I’d do anything just to get this over with.

“Do you know what Dr. X would want…? I need to know everything,” I tell her.

Sharon averts her eyes from me, contemplating. This is a conversation we should have when I’m finished talking with Dr. Elaine, but I don’t care. I have to know, I have to get some ideas. I’m desperate at this point and I know that I’ll need to begin formulating something as soon as possible.

“Dr. X’s goal involves the control of others—especially supernaturals,” she explains to me. “He would want something mostly for that purpose, or he’d want more people to do his dirty work. Field work. I’ll tell you more later, now go to Dr. Elaine. If her tea runs cold, you’re late.”

I nod. It wasn’t much, but it would get me somewhere. I left to find Dr. Elaine, who would be at the lounge. I didn’t have much time—I only had about five minutes, so I rushed, avoiding the stares of others as rumors were common here. I didn’t care, because I knew I would still be here to see their shocked faces when I rose above them. Now, finding the lounge was easy—there were many who were leaving said lounge and looking at me if I had two heads. I found the right place.

Dr. Elaine, wife to the leader of the Midas Group, and ultimately the most powerful woman in this entire base, idly sat at a table. She feigned boredom, her head resting in the palm of her hand while her other poked at what I could only assume was a cinnamon bun with a fork. I noticed she had a cup of tea, and—thank god, I could still see that it was hot. On the same table was another cup of tea, untouched.

“Pleased you could make it. Sit, Dr. Daichi,” she orders me. “Have tea with me.”

She still hasn’t looked at me. I don’t dare to make her wait, so I follow her order and sit at her table across from her. Then our eyes meet. I sense that fear brewing up from yesterday, but she’s not doing what she did before. I can still move. She doesn’t speak with me for several minutes, she just stares. What I do is will my thoughts to be blank. I can’t have her looking deep within my subconscious or invoking me to remember things better left forgotten.

“You are the first person that saw through my magic so easily. You understood what I could do,” she states. “Very interesting. Not only were you able to do that, you also spoke your thoughts to me. My magic doesn’t allow for the recipient to even be able to think. You were supposed to act like a lifeless shell.”

Why is she telling me all of this? Gagliardi told me that her magic is so that any defense from the recipient would fail instantly. She never said anything about thoughts and yet, Dr. Elaine is openly admitting that to some extent, her magic did not work effectively, that somehow I…

“Resisted. You resisted my magic, to an extent. A bold move for someone I could crush with just my eye alone,” Dr. Elaine muses.

I know I should feel fear like I was earlier, but for some reason, I don’t. It’s there—the fear, brewing—but rather than it coming to a boil, it’s at a simmer. I know her words are a bluff. She wants to unnerve me, intimidate me.

“You could have done that yesterday, Doctor. “Crush me” like you say. Kill me. Do whatever you wanted.” I respond strongly. “Yet you are the one that chose to believe in me for that one moment. To show belief then instantly revoke it without a proper analysis is not honorable.”

For a moment, Dr. Elaine does not speak. Rather than sinking into submissiveness, Our eyes meet again. I want her to know that I may fear her, but I will not hold my tongue.

“Your husband would agree,” I add.

Then—she chuckles. Our eyes break contact briefly then immediately meet again. Her hand reaches out towards my face. Only her index finger strokes my cheek, as if I’m something foreign to her.

“He would.”

Dr. Elaine moves her finger away, and gestures to the untouched cup of tea. I am almost wary of it, but still I pick it up and take a sip. It’s Lady Grey tea, the counterpart to Earl Grey. The taste is light, citrusy, and a unique take on the original. It seemed she were the traditional type. I was more of a coffee person, but this wasn’t bad either. I place it down and thank her. I’m met with a nod as she takes a sip of her own cup almost ceremoniously. Then, she clears her throat. I know now she means business.

“Dr. Daichi, I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if you fail my husband, especially considering the fact you know of his true intentions. Not even I could protect you from his wrath.”

“I understand,” I reply.

“You better,” she begins. “Especially since I am overseeing you now. Do not disappoint me.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” she grins. “I expect you to create something within the next month and present it to the both of us.”

Now that was gracious of her. I’ve been known in the previous facilities to come up with ideas and create in a matter of days. A month would be like child’s play.

“Thank you,” I immediately tell her. “For this, and giving me a chance yourself.”

“Mhm. Now go.”

I stand, bow to her, and take my leave.

The determination I feel is astounding.

I… shall win this game.

#game of dice #kaito & sharon #fic series: bones

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geekns · 6 years

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The rules are as follows: go to page 7 of your WIP, go to the 7th line, share 7 sentences, and tag 7 more writer-bloggers to continue the challenge.

I was tagged by @grassangel who specificially inquired about projects that are not PMS but i’m including it since it’s the only thing i’m actively working on. I haven’t even written another words of Princeling!

1 - PMS ch. 14 (ugh this is random and sounds terrible)

She made a sound of disagreement but was rather at his mercy.

“Just while we eat?” he cajoled. She rolled her eyes.

She dozed while he puttered the in the kitchen. She felt warm and safe hearing him cook for her. She wanted to try to feed herself this time.

A few minutes later he was setting food on the table between them.

2 - Tea with the Brig (doesn't have seven pages, only five; this is from page one)

“I say, who are you?” the Brig demanded, jumping to his feet. “Where have you brought me?” His chair thumped to the rugged floor, overturned. The doors behind Missy opened abruptly, and he backed away from the sound. She heard Seb quietly threatening someone, restraining them from entering the small sitting room. The Brig was gazing around her tea room in open shock. Sunshine streaming through curtains, potted plants, an ebony and velvet changing screen, a chaise lounge.

3 - still untitled twissy fic should have finished ages ago (i’m so sorry)

And she felt as if she were being watched. She scanned her surroundings, pretended to look at a watch--not that she had or needed one--didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Nothing was out of place, just quiet as death. She tilted her head back, crossed her ankles, and closed her eyes.

After a long minute there was a quiet rustling and a breath of air. Missy kept her eyes closed and refrained from crinkling her nose: someone needed to bathe. Small hands touched her knees.

4 - Petrichor sequel that i sometimes return to but may never finish (ugh this is an awkward section, thus why it’s unposted)

But he was willing to try to do this for Donna if she understood the risk to herself.

“Yes,” she said again.

“Lastly, you will not bear these children until they are born, it is...” he didn't want to say impossible, he didn't actually know that for certain. “advisable that the male carries the eggs after a certain point.”

“Eggs?” Donna confirmed, doubt in her voice. Humans are mammal, was he trying to tell her that Time Lords weren't?

“There's no word for it in your languages,” he explained.

5 - Epilogue to Something Blue (from page five, again no seventh page)

The temple was nearly fully submerged itself, its marble columns shining beneath the indigo water. It had an upper level that was still mostly above water that he was headed for. He cut power and drifted the last bit, pulling up to a balcony. He leapt over the railing, his feet only partially submerged. It only took a moment to tie the boat up, and then he was ascending a few stairs into the temple's interior.

There were no plaques or displays or velvet ropes in here. This part of the temple was typically off limits to the public, though clean enough that perhaps VIP tours or fundraisers were perhaps an event.

6 - Incubus (now read this, i fully intend to delete this scene at a later date but it’s still in the draft)

The Doctor squirmed, resisting the urge to tell Jack what was going to happen next time they met:

“I don't know the details, Jack,” he lied.

“And even if you did, you wouldn't say anything,” he laughed. “I knew what I was dropping on you when you left me at Torchwood, after that year that never was. I could have stayed with you, but I knew that it was time to get out. That's when I decided not to pine after you anymore, start trying to form some new connections.”

“And now?”

7 - Unicorn (Simm!Master regenerates into Missy post-End of Time, now non-canon)

It hurt, it was too warm, but she endured it. She grabbed a bar of soap and started scrubbing harshly at her pale skin, trying to bring some color to it and get rid of the horrid stench of living rough. She couldn't even remember the last time she had taken a bath, nor a shower. Her thoughts started to wander again. The Doctor had never been rough with her, but she had been rough with him. A part of him hadn't liked it, but the part of her that had been going mad had wanted it. She had wanted him to hate her, or to at least act as if he did.

8 - A Thousand More (Simm!Master regenerates post-the Doctor Falls...i have no memory of writing this!!! From page two out of five.)

She gradually regained control of her bodily processes and limbs, and told her body to sit up.

The third thing she noticed was her hair. It was dark, which suited her just fine, but it was everywhere. She had more hair than that bitch River Song. It was at least waist-length and had a mind of its own. Portions of it were damp from her tears, and it was hanging in her face now, wild curls frizzing frightfully and completely out of control. It simply would not do; she would have to tame the mop and quickly.

9 - In Case of Emergency (Ten, Donna, and Martha stick around a bit longer after “the Doctor’s Daughter” and get to see Jenny regenerate)

"Jenny," the Doctor gasped, voice tight with unshed tears. "Oh, you came back to me, you regenerated."

"Is that what that was?" Jenny asked, reaching to pull Donna into the embrace she was sharing with her father. “I'd never felt pain anything like it, I was so scared." She buried her face into Donna's chest, turning away from her father entirely. She was shorter now, just as petite but less developed as a woman, with curlier hair now in a beautiful strawberry blonde. Her eyes searched for Donna's approval, and were brown, the same color as the Doctor's, which was jarring to the extreme, but it was still Jenny looking out at her.

10 - The Doctor’s Backup Plan (mpreg crack, pure crack)

The Doctor blinked at her.

“I suppose,” he allowed. “I hadn't thought of that. I guess I'll put on some protection...not that you're likely to be impregnated by me. I doubt that we're compatible.”

“You don't know for sure?” Donna asked, amazed that he was admitting to a gap in his vast knowledge. She often wondered if he actually knew half of what he claimed to.

11 - Slap (basically the Doctor gets turned on when Donna slaps him??? Donna’s POV, terribad)

Had he ever done this before? The pervert probably had, multiple times. But Rose was the name and size of a mere girl, not a real woman. Donna would make sure that he forgot her. She wagered that Rose had never even considered playing rough like this, no Rose was a porcelain doll for a pedestal, not a woman with deeper needs. Not a woman capable of fulfilling an old man's darkest fantasies. And that's what he was, she realized...she had no idea how old this man was, but his eyes were old, and tired, and seen more than even she could imagine.

12 - And Then She Forgot (Donna tries to go back to work at the temp agency after the mindwipe)

Donna blinks at him, stunned, and tries to regroup as quickly as possible. She bursts into tears, laying it on as thick as she dares. She can feel the eyes of the other employees and potential temps on her as she sobs away. Kevin sighs, walks around the desk, and offers her a tissue box.

“I suppose you didn't hear about the accident,” she manages to take a tissue between sobs.

“Accident?” he asks dryly, sitting on the edge of his desk with his arms crossed.

13 - Smith, Jones, Noble, and Mott (AU series 3 ep “Smith and Jones”)

“Sarah!” he exclaimed as they hugged each other tightly. “This is Donna, and this is Martha. Girls, this is Sarah Jane Smith.”

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“No Rose or Mickey this time?” Sarah Jane asked, smiling at the two women warmly, albeit a little confused.

“Uh, no, not after...” the Doctor lowered his voice. “...Canary Wharf.”

14 - Desert Fox (original fic, very old)

When I wake the lights have been dimmed, and I no longer have to squint against their harshness. Logan is seated beside me, his hands clasped around one of mine, his head resting on our hands. I feel no pain, only relief, comfort, safety. I realize suddenly that this is why I have chosen to stay with him: he is the only human I have ever felt safe with. I lift a hand to brush his hair out of his face. He had grown it back out, has yet to cut it again.

"How are you feeling, miss...?"

I get lots of ideas but not much traction. I tag @basmathgirl @missysrehabilitation @ellym3lly @perrydowning @emilyweepsforpilfrey @kylorenvevo @xreyoflight and anyone else who may want to take a whack at it

#writing #fanfic #this is embarrassing tbh #tagged

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rustbonerp-blog · 6 years

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THERE ARE FOUR SLOTS FOR EACH CLASS C ABILITY

ADOPTIVE MUSCLE MEMORY: Muscle Mimicry is the ability to flawlessly imitate any movement or series of movements (even skills such as fighting, artistry or musical talents), provided that you have perceived it performed by someone else. The user of this ability must psychometrically align their bodies with the skeletal, muscular and nervous systems of the subject that they watch, allowing them to psychically determine the exact posture to take in order to reproduce any motion, posture or action exactly. The motion or skill set is retained in the memory of the user after a short trance of motion memory.

ACID GENERATION: also known as Acid Secretion, Corrosive Fluid Secretion or Corrosion is the ability to generate and secrete acidic substances from the body. One with this ability can manifest it as spitting or simply as acidic skin secretion, such as sweat or even bleeding. This ability also usually allows the user to shift the acidity of the acid or to control when it is emanated from the body, so that it can be used to corrode subjects or even blind or burn opponents.

AEROKINESIS: also called Anemokinesis or Air/Wind Manipulation is the ability to mentally affect or move wind currents or wind. With this ability, one can easily resist and manipulate wind pressure, move air particles to create vacuums to suffocate foes, or send wind at foes as either gentle wisps of air to gale-force currents. One with this ability could even travel on air currents via flight or walking. Another faculty is Aerogenesis, in which one is capable of generating breathable air or the constituents of air.

ANIMATION: is the ability to use psionic power to instill inanimate objects with the ability to move and to act of their own accord. One with this ability can use surrounding objects to defend or fight for him, or just for menial tasks (or anything within the capability of their size and shape)., or imbue inanimate objects with a portion of one's own psychic energy, so he can psychically command or control said objects after they are animated

AQUATIC ADAPTATION: also called Undersea Adaptation, Underwater Adaptation allows the user to breathe under water, to swim very well (usually at high speeds) and to easily endure high water pressure and extreme water temperatures

ASTRAL PROJECTION: also called Soul/Spirit Projection, Ethereal Projection, Astral Travel, Astral/Soul Release, Free Spirit, or Spirit Freedom is the psychic ability to temporarily release the spirit or “soul-self” from the body, allowing it to roam freely, usually via Flight, or enter and exit one’s own body at will (travel can take place on either the physical plane or the Astral Plane). The longer one travels, however, the more likely that harm will be inflicted on the body of the user who has left it with no animating consciousness or thought.

ATMIDOKENSIS: also known as Nephokinesis, Nephelokinesis, Hygrokinesis or Cloud/Vapor/Steam/Mist Manipulation is the ability to mentally generate and manipulate vapor. With this ability, one can generate blinding mist using only their mind’s power or clear it to see ahead of oneself. One could even change the temperature of mists, or shift mist back into either its solid form, ice, or its liquid form, water (though it could not be manipulated until reverted back to its vapor form). This ability, at the higher bands, may even allow the user to move the clouds (making them obscure or reveal the sun or lowering them to generate fog; not manipulating weather).

CAMOUFLAGE: is the ability to blend into the color of one’s surroundings one of two ways. The first way is the most common way in which the user tries to blend in by psychically perceiving (or simply imagining) the colors around him so that he blends in perfectly with his surroundings, but only in the front, and possibly from the sides of the view of subjects. The second way is a psychic faculty in which the user can empathically connect with his surroundings, so that the camouflage is so dynamic that the user of the ability is nearly invisible even when moving.

CONDUCTION: is the ability to allow some source of energy to run through the body with no harm to the body itself. One with this ability could conduct heat, electricity another form of energy or all of the former combined. The user could touch a live wire and conduct the electricity, and then channel that same electricity into someone or something upon making physical contact, thus shocking or electrocuting the desired subject (or charging it if it is a machine).

CRYPTOGRAPHY: also known as Psionic Encryption/Ciphering is the psionic ability to encrypt any message (written, vocal or otherwise) into a code that is unknown to anyone but the user and the subject for whom the message is designated. However, another faculty (called Psionic Decryption/Deciphering) allows psionic decoding of writing and speech in a different languages into one that the user can understand (instead of understanding intuitively) so that a subject could speak or write in Chinese, German, Navajo, etc. (even a made-up code), but to the user it would sound or look like whatever language he understood, and vice versa.

DECEPTION: also called Deceit (among other names) is the name of two related faculties. The first faculty is most heard-of; the user is capable of lying with a straight face and without indication that one is lying, thus evading Lie Detection (even by telepathic means). The second faculty, however, is most powerful; the user psychically causes subjects to believe anything spoken by the user, no matter how absurd or strange the lie may be. Even if the subject discovers that the lie is untrue, the user of the ability could convince him otherwise.

DENSITY SHIFTING: is the ability to use psionic power to alter one’s own density concentration. This ability can be used to become extremely dense, so the body is nearly impenetrable and hits are powerfully concussive, or to become intangible, so as to evade concussive blows altogether. Usually this ability only allows one type of density shifting or the other; however, it is not uncommon for the user to become dense or intangible as desired.

DNA READING: also called DNA Perception, Genetic Perception, Gene Perception, DNA Awareness, Genetic Awareness or Gene Awareness is the ability to psychically "read" the genetics of a subject through coming into close contact with them. One with this ability could discern a foe’s medical history (allergies, if heart failure, cancer or other medical problems run in their family). The user could even sense physical traits (like race, eye and hair color, gender, recessive genetic traits) even at a distance, or sense if two or more beings share a blood relation (and what the relation is), or sense superhuman abilities (including latent ones), etc.

ELASTICITY: is exaggerated pliability of the body. One with this ability can extend their limbs, contort their bodies, blow their body up like a balloon, bounce like rubber and resist extreme concussive force (even beyond that of a bomb explosion). Not to mention, the user’s body can often even ground intense electricity like rubber. However, the user has a stretching limit, and thus, once they pass it, they would be susceptible to pain just like any normal human.

ENERGY ACTIVATION: also known as Energy Boosting or Ignition is the ability to psychically increase the energy of any fire, electrical spark or other energetic faculty. One with this ability could psychically spark up energy to keep fires going underwater, or allow electrical appliances work in dead zones. One with this ability could even allow abilities to work when a power-nullifier attacks an ally.

FLIGHT: is the ability to defy gravity in order to propel oneself through the air. One with this ability can accomplish it in one of multiple ways. Either their body projects an electromagnetic aura around them, which repulses the user from the ground and allows propulsion from one point to another. Others include the use of magnetic, gravitational or sonic repulsion, riding air waves, riding light waves, projection of an energy aura, the presence of physical wings and the like.

FORCEFIELD GENERATION: also called Forcefield Projection or Force Field Generation/Projection is the ability to generate fields/bubbles of energy (psychic, psionic, or the like) that keep anything outside the field/bubble from entering, and anything within from exiting. Occasionally the field can be varied in size and may allow one to bounce or roll in it similar to a hamster ball (or even to slide on it) and it may reseal if penetrated. The user can sometimes even move objects caught within them.

INTUITION: also called Discernment or Instinct is the psychic ability to "just know" personal information about an object, subject or occurrence, including sensing how others will react to something the user does or when something is about to happen. This ability is innately used at random times, and cannot be turned off. A faculty of this superhuman ability allows the user to also (or instead) intuit spiritual truths and principles (sensing the presence of evil/danger/people that dislike the user, a feeling that one should or shouldn’t go somewhere or the right thing to do in a situation).

KINETIC ACCELERATION / DECELERATION: the ability to accelerate and or decelerate the speed of an object or a subject; One with this ability could speed up an object's motion or slow it down by pure will. However, the only downside is that an object cannot be set into motion by this ability, only sped up or slowed down if it is motion prior to use of the ability. Not to mention, things of greater weight or moving faster would be harder to accelerate or decelerate than things that are lighter in weight or moving slower.

KINETIC ACTIVATION: also called Kinetic Channeling- the ability to imbue objects with kinetic energy to set them into motion, regardless of whether living, inanimate or mechanical. One with this ability can cause rocks to start rolling or cause people to start moving, even if they don’t want to. This ability does not allow the user to control the motion, unless accompanied by Kinetic Redirection (which is common), although it may allow control over the speed of the motion.

LENTATION: also known as Time Dilation or the Bullet-Time Effect is the psychic ability to perceive time as though it were slower than it actually is, and to adjust the body's speed and reflexes to match this perception of time. One with this ability could see bullets approaching them, or perceive those with superspeed approaching them, and react to them as though they were moving at the same speed. This ability could be used to evade nearly any attack, by seeing it like it was moving slower, when in fact you were moving faster.

MATTER INGESTION: or Digestive Adaptation is the superhuman ability to ingest and pass any substance through the body without the substance inducing bodily harm, even if it is corrosive like acid or sharp like glass or dense like titanium. This can be accomplished one of a few ways; either their physiology is built for the ingestion of any material (pliable digestive tract, super-strong teeth), or they are capable of psychically rendering a subject harmless so that it is safe enough to ingest (the digestive tract may even reactively adapt). People with this ability are immune to food-borne sicknesses like food-poisoning, alcohol poisoning or salmonella.

METALLOKINESIS: also called Ferrokinesis or Metal Manipulation is the ability to mentally affect metals. This includes raising or lowering the density of metal, mentally moving metals around and reforming, deforming or reshaping metals into any desired shape. The user could even completely cover oneself in said material (to form an armor for the user), change one metal into another, fuse metals, make them more or less resistant to rust or the like. This ability is not to be confused with Magnetokinesis.

MICROWAVE EMISSION: is the ability to generate and project microwaves, usually through the hands. The subject on whom this ability is used acts much like they would if they were placed inside a microwave oven. This ability causes plastic to melt, flesh to burn, liquids to boil blood gains the consistency of water), etc.

NARCOSIS: also called Numbness Inducing or Numbing is the ability to numb bodily sensations. One with this ability could cause any sensory organs (eyes, ears, nose, mouth or fingers) to become numb so as to devoid foes of their senses. One with this ability could even keep an ally from feeling pain by causing the area of injury to be numbed. Also, with enough practice, this ability could be used to stun foes through attacks, or induce unconsciousness in foes by a simple touch.

POWER-SENSING: also called Power/Ability Detection or Power/Ability Sense is the superhuman ability to instinctively tell if another has a superhuman ability and to locate others with superhuman abilities. In some cases, one can even discern specifically what abilities a person has, and when a subject is using their powers. This usually entails telepathic detection of abilities, but sometimes it involves the detection of a superhuman aura or simply an intuitive superhuman faculty in which the user “just knows”.

POSSESSION: The ability to take control and inhabit the body of an individual. One with this power is able to temporarily inhabit the body of an individual as long as they are physically in the same room as the person. It does not work if the person they are trying to inhabit has telepathic abilities that are able to block one from entering their mind. The duration of how long one with this ability depends on the mental durability the user has, for example, someone strong of mind will be able to possess one for longer periods of time than someone who is mentally unstable.

PSAMMOKINESIS: also called Ammokinesis or Arenakinesis is the ability to mentally manipulate sand. With this ability, one could hurl sand at foes, compact it into constructs like barriers and weapons, or even summon sand from all around to form a “tidal wave” of sand, a sandstorm, a sand vortex and the like (even quicksand, in the right environment). Should one hone this ability, however, this could lead into practicing Hyalokinesis.

PRECOGNITION: also called Future Sight or Foresight is the psychic ability to visually perceive information about future events before they happen, as opposed to guessing based on deductive reasoning and current knowledge. It can come as a brief flash of the scene, or it may last longer. Sometimes, however, it can even be activated at will, within whichever time intervals the user desires (“the next six hours”, “tomorrow”, etc).

PSYCHOMETRY: is the ability to mentally divine information about an object or living subject, simply by coming into close contact with it or something associated with said object or subject. Some with the ability can even act as mediums for residual energies and, as such, can experience talents or memories temporarily by touching an object previously owned by someone else. Or they may be able to tell the past or future of a subject by touching an object owned by or associated with the subject.

PYROKINESIS: is the ability to mentally create and manipulate fire. One with this ability can excite the atoms within an object, possibly enough energy to ignite the object. A pyrokinetic is a person capable of generating flames from thin air, not requiring the consumption of oxygen or combustible objects to maintain the flames. They have been seen being able to increase the temperature in their proximity, create flames, and endure extreme heat and flame without being harmed.

SAPROKINESIS: also known as Blennokinesis, Myxokinesis, Mysokinesis or Rot/Putrefied/Putrefaction Manipulation is the ability to manipulate anything rotten, putrid, moldy, or that festers with bacteria. This ability can range from generation and manipulation of pus/ichor to full-out control over decomposed matter, mucus, slime (mucous secretions of animals) and saliva; the user can also control earwax, moldy matter, fetid water and polluted air (altering its movement and intensity) and fecal matter. This ability can even be used to actually induce rot, speed it up, negate it or sometimes reverse it (even inducing infection on open wounds).

SEDUCTION: is the ability to psychically project sexual thoughts into subjects’ minds, to speak with subliminal seductive power behind every word, and/or activate the brain’s pleasure centers by touch or thought. This ability could be used to attract and seduce subjects, even to the point of psychically inducing psycholagny, (so that a subject can become aroused or achieve orgasm simply by thinking sexual thoughts). With this ability, notions and images would rush into a subject’s head, and they would believe that they were the one thinking the thoughts, and thus they would either be distracted, confused or accepting of the sexual attraction

SLEEP INDUCING: is the superhuman psychic ability to put others to sleep at will. One with this ability may do so by a kiss, a touch, gentle speaking, a contagious yawn (called Psychic Yawn), a soothing song, a soporific/hypnotic (sleep-inducing) chemical generated from the body or simply mental broadcast. This ability cannot determine the length of the sleep. The deepness and length of the induced sleep varies depending on the user of the ability.

SONOKINESIS: also called Sonikinesis, Audiokinesis, Acoustokinesis/Acoustikinesis or Sound Wave/Sound Manipulation is the ability to mentally manipulate sound waves. This can be used to go beyond one’s current vocal ability, allowing one to project one’s voice or any other noise at extremely high/low decibels, or to change the tone/pitch/volume of any desired sound, as well as what sound is projected (or how many sounds). This ability can even convert regular sound waves into concussive blasts. Sometimes, the user can only manipulate sounds after they have bounced off of surfaces, when they are somewhat weaker (called Echokinesis or Echo Manipulation).

STEALTH: is the ability to act in a covert manner beyond the capability of a normal human. This ability is useful to keep perfectly still when hiding, and to sneak with extreme grace. When this ability is active, the user doesn’t disturb animals with his movements or even emit perceptible heat or sound; their psychic imprint is masked (so their minds are shielded from mental communication and domination) and, if hiding, anything short of ESP, Superhuman Awareness or Kinesthesia can’t detect them. One with this ability may also be a good thief and/or saboteur (they are capable of adroit maneuvering, and gifted with an innate sense of how to tell convincing lies). Or this ability may psychically (or subliminally) compel subjects not to notice the user.

SUPERSPEED: is the ability for a person to move faster than a normal human. One with this ability accomplishes it one of two ways, the first of which including superhumanly powerful and flexible legs. The second way includes the mind either exerting a force which propels the body at quicker speeds, or a different psychic force which allows the body’s molecules to vibrate at high speeds (this sort of psychic energy also allows Intangibility).

SUPERSTRENGTH: is the ability for a person to exert force from the muscles beyond that of a normal human. This can be accomplished by either fortifying the muscles with psychic force, or simply having denser muscle mass than that of a normal human. The amount of psychic force for the former (and thus, the amount of strength) varies from person to person. The upper levels of this ability are not yet known, but it remains possible that with training this person could lift, pull or push several tons.

TELEMITRY: also known as Electronic/Digital Communication is the psychic perception, detection and the manipulation of the digital/electronic/radio waves within electronic devices. The user acts as a living internet hub, allowing them to sift through the internet and electronic/digital/radio waves with their mind. Furthermore, they can manipulate existing waves and receive and create their own, giving them the ability to communicate with any computer or radio on the fly, regardless of whether it has a working connection.

TELEPORTATION: is the superhuman ability to psychically move from one locale to another without occupying the space in between the two locations. The person with this ability does not manipulate time, so it can't time travel.

VENOM SECRETION: or Poison Secretion is the ability to generate and secrete venom or poisonous substances from the body. One with this ability can manifest it as spitting or simply as a skin secretion. This ability also usually allows the user to change the potency of the venom or to control when it is released from the body, so that it can be used to blind, paralyze or otherwise disorient opponents.

ZOOPHYSIOLOGY: also called Animal Physiology or Animal Anatomy is the presence of animal features within a superhuman (they don’t necessarily act animal). This may include an Avian/Bird Physiology (feathers/wings, talons, a gizzard), a Reptilian Physiology (scales, forked tongue, claws, slit eyes), an Amphibian Physiology (mucous skin, cold-blooded, water affinity, slit eyes, body similar to frog), an Ichthyic/Fish Physiology (scales, water affinity, water-breathing ability, gills/fins/fish tail), an Insect Physiology (chitinous exoskeleton, segmented limbs, extra eyes/legs, secretions, no heart) or a Mammal Physiology (fur, fangs/claws, perhaps paws, supersenses) or the like.

#rustbonerp #previews #abilities #class c

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wosh422 · 4 years

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Inside Earth, Microbes Approach Immortality

". . [T]he microorganisms found in coal are now survivors, imprisoned at the coal at the time it was formed, from material that originally was probably very full of microorganisms because it was peat-like in nature," he wrote in the Journal of Bacteriology. "It's my opinion that here and there sprinkled through the masses of the coal measures an occasional spore or any similarly resistant resting period of a microorganism has survived the vicissitudes of time and circumstance and kept its own living character, its capability to become a vegetative form, and its capability to multiply when circumstances are left handed for it." This dessicated condition we now call anhydrobiosis, and it's in this state that organisms such as water bears can withstand the vacuum of space and bombardment with radiation. Lipman's coal came from Wales and Pennsylvania, where some was pulled from a depth of 1,800 feet. Pennsylvania coal inspired the title of a whole geologic subperiod -- the Pennsylvanian. It's at least 300 million years old. The year was 1931. His coworkers probably thought he was nuts. But from where we sit in 2019, it is looking increasingly possible that Lipman wasn't nuts. The world's oldest surviving people might not be gnarled bristlecone pines or shimmering aspen clones, but small microbes locked in stone miles under the surface whose purpose is to not to grow or replicate, but only to cheat death. An increasing number of newspapers published in the past decade indicate that bacteria living -- many of them in a hydrated, active state -- in sediments, in stones, and in pockets and fissures buried deep underground are old beyond belief. For example, in the early 2000s, scientists demonstrated that the rate at which microbes in aquifers and sediments were breathing was significantly slower than that of germs in the surface. The biomass turnover rates -- the time in which is needed to replace the molecules in a cell -- were measured on the order of hundreds to thousands of years. "We don't know if the microbes of those subsurface environments replicate at such slow rates of biomass turnover," wrote Frederick Colwell and Steven D'Hondt in a review named Nature and Extent of the Deep Biosphere in 2013,"or reside without breaking for countless tens of centuries." A 2017 paper in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science discovered low densities of bacteria (although"low" remains 50-2,000 cells per cubic centimeter) in 5 to 30 million-year-old coal and shale beds situated two km beneath the floor of the Pacific Ocean from the coast of Japan. They were actively, if exceptionally slowly, living. Their creation times ranged from months to over 100 years. However, this quote was probably low, the authors conceded. The production time of E. coli from the laboratory: 15 to 20 minutes. A 2018 study published in Geobiology of microbes living in deep sea sediments from the South Pacific Gyre reasoned that the fitness in these sediments is about growing but only surviving. Such microbes' only food source is whatever happened to be buried together, the authors concluded. The quantity of carbon they have for upkeep and repair annually is only 2% of the cell's own carbon material.

Taken together, these findings are not as absurd as they may appear when you consider that germs buried deep beneath the planet's surface are protected from cosmic radiation -- a frequent killer of the preternaturally obsolete -- by thick overburdens of sediment, water, or stone (Muons, the form in which cosmic radiation reaches Earth's surface, can only penetrate tens of meters into stone ). Such radiation mutates the DNA of organisms living on Earth's surface. Panspermia hypotheses that life seeded the world by hitchhiking inside asteroids have always seemed very tin-foil hat for me. But these findings, along with the recent understanding that life might have appeared on Earth almost as soon as it was possible, induce me to reconsider. Although distance is immense, life is insistent. To sum up, Earth's crust seems to be just lousy with idling, historical bacteria parked in power-save manner, prepared at almost a minute's notice to throw the gearshift into drive. But what a life! Eons spent entombed in a dark, airless, quiet matrix, hardly eating, hardly breathing, hardly moving, hardly living. But not dead. Not dead.

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connervgni463 · 4 years

Text

Inside Earth, Microbes Approach Immortality

Last month, the Deep Carbon Observatory declared an astonishing fact: the bulk of the microbes living beneath the planet's surface amounts to 15 to 23 billion tons of carbon dioxide, a sum some 245 to 385 times greater than the carbon mass of all people. That's remarkable. It was not so long ago we weren't even certain life at depth was possible. But buried in the media release was a detail that I discovered a whole lot more surprising and intriguing than the bulk of underground life: its era. Back in the late 1920s, a scientist named Charles Lipman, a professor at the University of California, Berkeley, started to suspect there were bacteria in rocks. Not fossil bacteria. Alive bacteria. He was considering the fact that bacteria in his lab may be reanimated after 40 years in dry dirt in sealed bottles. If they could endure four years, was there any limitation? Coal seemed like a rock ripe for testing, made as it is from swamp muck. He started crushing lumps of coal to find out if he could get anything to grow from the dust. He did. When placed in solutions of coal dust and sterile water, in two to three weeks he started to see what seemed like germs. When put in solutions enriched with germs chow called peptone, it took as little as five hours. Intriguingly, he found a rehydration period of at least a couple of days in liquid was essential for revivification. When the crushed coal was wetted but instantly placed on food-infused gelatin-like agar in a Petri dish, nothing grew. He had, of course, included controllers and taken precautions to ensure no contaminants led to the growth. His draconian cleaning and sterilization process of the pre-crushed lumps involved scrubbing, soaking, baking, or pressurizing the lumps of coal for days or weeks before pulverization. In actuality, he discovered that heating the sample for hours at 160°C never managed to kill the germs within the coal. If anything, it only seemed to encourage them. The longer they had been baked -- up to an unbelievable 50 hours the better they seemed to grow when the coal was then crushed (If his results were real, they might not be altogether surprising given both the states that produce coal as well as the effects of heat shock proteins). Lipman didn't feel that the germs that he coaxed from coal were residing in the sense that the bacteria in your gut are living. Instead, he considered that during the process of forming coal, the germs had dried up and entered suspended animation. ". . [T]he microorganisms found in coal are now survivors, imprisoned at the coal at the time it was formed, from material that originally was probably very full of microorganisms because it was peat-like in nature," he wrote in the Journal of Bacteriology. "It's my opinion that here and there sprinkled through the masses of the coal measures an occasional spore or any similarly resistant resting period of a microorganism has survived the vicissitudes of time and circumstance and kept its own living character, its capability to become a vegetative form, and its capability to multiply when circumstances are left handed for it." This dessicated condition we now call anhydrobiosis, and it's in this state that organisms such as water bears can withstand the vacuum of space and bombardment with radiation. Lipman's coal came from Wales and Pennsylvania, where some was pulled from a depth of 1,800 feet. Pennsylvania coal inspired the title of a whole geologic subperiod -- the Pennsylvanian. It's at least 300 million years old. The year was 1931. His coworkers probably thought he was nuts. But from where we sit in 2019, it is looking increasingly possible that Lipman wasn't nuts. The world's oldest surviving people might not be gnarled bristlecone pines or shimmering aspen clones, but small microbes locked in stone miles under the surface whose purpose is to not to grow or replicate, but only to cheat death. An increasing number of newspapers published in the past decade indicate that bacteria living -- many of them in a hydrated, active state -- in sediments, in stones, and in pockets and fissures buried deep underground are old beyond belief. For example, in the early 2000s, scientists demonstrated that the rate at which microbes in aquifers and sediments were breathing was significantly slower than that of germs in the surface. The biomass turnover rates -- the time in which is needed to replace the molecules in a cell -- were measured on the order of hundreds to thousands of years. "We don't know if the microbes of those subsurface environments replicate at such slow rates of biomass turnover," wrote Frederick Colwell and Steven D'Hondt in a review named Nature and Extent of the Deep Biosphere in 2013,"or reside without breaking for countless tens of centuries." A 2017 paper in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science discovered low densities of bacteria (although"low" remains 50-2,000 cells per cubic centimeter) in 5 to 30 million-year-old coal and shale beds situated two km beneath the floor of the Pacific Ocean from the coast of Japan. They were actively, if exceptionally slowly, living. Their creation times ranged from months to over 100 years. However, this quote was probably low, the authors conceded. The production time of E. coli from the laboratory: 15 to 20 minutes. A 2018 study published in Geobiology of microbes living in deep sea sediments from the South Pacific Gyre reasoned that the fitness in these sediments is about growing but only surviving. Such microbes' only food source is whatever happened to be buried together, the authors concluded. The quantity of carbon they have for upkeep and repair annually is only 2% of the cell's own carbon material.

"Only the fact that intact microbial cells are found in this ancient habitat has remarkable consequences regarding the durability of the organisms," the authors wrote. In their own computer versions running multi-million year simulations, after four thousand years, all cells had ceased growth. They were only putting whatever tools they could scrounge into maintaining the old jalopy running, such as the desperate survivors in a Mad Max movie. How long does that zero-sum game go on? Will they finally starve? Will they metamorphose to the dessicated, suspended state that Charles Lipman promised to find in Pennsylvania coal? Or does that need the particular conditions of coalification? Evidence is also accumulating that such nutrient-deprived, superannuated germs aren't"microbial zombies". To the contrary, a lot of studies have found that if deep subsurface microbes are put in more moderate environments, they immediately animate. Taken together, these findings are not as absurd as they may appear when you consider that germs buried deep beneath the planet's surface are protected from cosmic radiation -- a frequent killer of the preternaturally obsolete -- by thick overburdens of sediment, water, or stone (Muons, the form in which cosmic radiation reaches Earth's surface, can only penetrate tens of meters into stone ). Such radiation mutates the DNA of organisms living on Earth's surface. Panspermia hypotheses that life seeded the world by hitchhiking inside asteroids have always seemed very tin-foil hat for me. But these findings, along with the recent understanding that life might have appeared on Earth almost as soon as it was possible, induce me to reconsider. Although distance is immense, life is insistent. To sum up, Earth's crust seems to be just lousy with idling, historical bacteria parked in power-save manner, prepared at almost a minute's notice to throw the gearshift into drive. But what a life! Eons spent entombed in a dark, airless, quiet matrix, hardly eating, hardly breathing, hardly moving, hardly living. But not dead. Not dead.

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clarenecessities · 6 years

Text

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch 11

Chapters: 11/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: how’s our hero gonna get out of–oh. oh god. Chapter Warnings: ASSAULT, actual violence, blood tw, blade tw, attempted murder, successful murder, psychological torture, character death, needles (okay, a precursor to needles), comparatively mild rage

Read on AO3

Adrien paced from one end of his chambers to the other, his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. He wished he could scowl, but since his return he had been appointed a ‘face choreographer,’ who expressly forbade the display of emotion, lest he give himself wrinkles. The only thing that surprised Adrien about this was that he hadn’t already had one assigned; although having only recently reacquired the ability to feel a full range of human emotions, it was distinctly possible he just hadn’t deviated from his moping default over the past few years.

As it was, he contented himself with watching the patterns in the ornate rugs over the ornate floors, walking along invisible lines he drew between pieces of furniture. Despite his new training, and the surge of festivities since his return (there had been no fewer than eight balls thrown), Adrien looked a mess. His hair was wild, tossed carelessly over his eyes despite his groomers’ best efforts, a rats’ nest of golden silk around a waxy, pale face. His summer green eyes, no longer glassy but sharp and bright, were ringed with purple bags, which admittedly did bring out the color, but were hardly acceptable for the so-called Most Beautiful Man in Florin.

Adrien found himself growing resentful of his appearance, watching his reflection in the mirrors that littered the castle, staring at the fake smiles in his portraits, upending any bowl of water that dared cross his path. His mother’s eyes were no longer enough to stay his hand; his was the face of a betrayer, a heartless monster who cared only for himself. It should look as ugly as the soul it contained.

His hands tightened behind his back as he thought of Marinette, and the look on her face when he had chosen to leave her. She hadn’t even looked surprised. She’d just been… sad.

He had tried to make it easier for her, to downplay what he would be enduring. He’d expected her to look shocked, or angry, or even heartbroken—he’d rather break her heart than lose her to death yet again—but she had stared at him like she saw right through him, just as always.

She must have been so disappointed in him.

He groaned, whirling on his heel as he reached the window, the curtains flapping in his wake. How could he? Didn’t he have faith in her? She must be so upset. He’d taken her choice away from her—but she was so stubborn! She would have chosen to fight, to the very last, and she wouldn’t have been able to make it out. Not that time. Not torn apart by smoke cats and worn out from saving him left and right. She had kept him safe, not just in the fire swamp, but for the entire kidnapping ordeal, and how did he thank her? He married someone else. All because he was too selfish and cowardly to lose her a second time.

He’d never see her again. She would be back on her ship by now, sailing across oceans he could only dream of, conquering whole worlds now that she was free of him. He’d been holding her back, keeping her centered here in Florin while she watched over him and her family. Well, her parents were out now. Adrien was no longer her problem. Marinette was finally free.

He stopped his pacing for a moment, swaying slightly as he closed his eyes, picturing her. Raven hair loose on the wind, the vast sky echoing the blue of her eyes, freckles and sea spray tossed with abandon…

Even in his imagination, she didn’t smile. She just looked out at the horizon, that same sad expression in place.

Prowling his rooms like a caged animal, Adrien didn’t smile either. He had done all he could to save her, but it came at the price of his future.

He wished he had more to give.

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Alya had awoken to an empty clifftop, her hands bound, Trixx loose at her feet, and had immediately realized she was (to put it delicately) absolutely screwed.

She’d been beaten. She, Alya Césaire, renowned across the world for her skill, her unrivaled expertise, had been defeated by a pirate named after a bug.

If that had been all, she might have been able to bear it—it was even a little exciting, to think that there was someone out there who could still pose a challenge. She hadn’t had a duel like that in years. No, it was more the matter of her employment that weighed on Alya as she flipped Trixx close enough to her waiting grasp to slice through her bonds. Papillon had hired her because she was the best. If she were no longer the best, then he had no use for her. If she dared show her face, he would know that not only had she lost, but she had lived to tell about it—and that was inexcusable.

With a heavy heart, she’d headed south. Or at least, what she assumed was south. Frankly, she was just following the coast until she could find a city. Guilder wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but maybe she could wrangle some kind of guard job. It didn’t pay as well, and it wasn’t as interesting, but it was about time she moved on anyway. The six-fingered woman obviously wasn’t in Florin, so she needed to look elsewhere for her quarry.

As it happened, the first city she came upon was a harbor. A small merchant vessel was looking for protection from pirates—an irony Alya couldn’t resist. Maybe she’d even get a rematch with Ladybug.

It never hurt to get in some practice.

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The first thing Marinette noticed was the smell.

It was a dank, musty smell, like a humid room had been left in the dark too long, and was just on the cusp of growing mold. The room she was in didn’t feel humid—it was large, and cool, but from the feel of the air probably underground, like a cellar.

She opened her eyes.

Or a dungeon.

She was laying on her stomach, her arms hanging loosely over her head, her hands and feet bound to the table she had been placed on. Her hair was down, fanned out behind her, but pulled off of her injured back, which felt as if it had a bandage applied but was otherwise exposed to the cool air. Though her boots seemed to have been emptied of concealed blades, and her belt and baldric (and associated weapons) had been removed, she was largely wearing the clothes she had passed out in. Her ruined blouse had been taken, but they’d left her undershirt and some semblance of modesty—though the strap had been pulled down to facilitate the bandage, and she couldn’t feel the familiar weight of her necklace.

Her cheek was resting on lacquered wood, and from the size and number of buckles she gathered the table was designed to restrain prisoners. The straps were loose enough for her to rotate her wrists and ankles, but not so loose that she could bend her knees or elbows to any real degree.

She licked her lips. First aid was unusual for a dungeon. The wounds themselves didn’t feel any worse, so it was unlikely to be a form of torture in itself. It could be that they intended to brand her somehow, something requiring a blank canvas that an infected wound would ruin—although her arm seemed to have some kind of salve applied to it as well, so maybe not.

Whatever they were up to, it couldn’t be good.

“Ah,” came a pleased voice, and dim lamplight flared and moved closer to Marinette’s exposed back. “You’re awake! We had to sedate you, your head might feel a bit muzzy. Just try not to move too fast, it will wear off soon.”

“Why?” asked Marinette, surprised to find her voice wasn’t the least bit hoarse.

“Well, even unconscious you were reacting to your wounds being cleaned,” said the voice, still outside her range of vision. Its owner seemed to be checking her bandages. “It was primarily to keep you still for the stitches.”

“No,” said Marinette, “Why heal me?”

“Oh! The Countess insists on it. You see, she loves breaking things, taking them apart—but, as she puts it, where’s the fun in smashing an empty egg? This is to put your yolk back in place, so to speak.” The owner of the voice finally moved to where Marinette could see her, and the prisoner blinked in surprise.

The girl she was faced with looked about her own age, with dull copper hair and a pinched look around her chalky skin. Her eyes were pale, a washed out blue that nearly faded into her sclera, and her pupils were dilated unnaturally in the flickering lamplight. She was small, and seemed somehow brittle; though obviously well-muscled, her stature and knotted fingers gave Marinette the impression that she would snap at the slightest touch. It was apparent that she hadn’t left this dungeon in a very, very long time.

“And when my yolk’s back in place?” she asked, wary.

“Well,” said the wraith, “you’ll be scrambled.”

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Nino had awoken with a pounding headache and a pounding heart. He surged to his feet, swaying dangerously when the blood rushed to his head, and looked around wildly for Ladybug.

Bile rose threateningly in the back of his throat, and he staggered backwards to lean against one of the boulders as he took stock of the situation.

He was alone.

Truly, completely, bitterly alone.

He’d been defeated. It seemed impossible, but it must be so. His last memories were of Ladybug’s arms around his throat, and the old and familiar taste of failure. He could hardly believe that he was even capable of being matched, let alone bested, and yet here he found himself, alive for a reason he couldn’t imagine.

Papillon was going to be so angry.

Nino swallowed nervously at the very thought. Papillon had made it perfectly clear that Nino was only valuable because he was the strongest, an immovable mountain of a young man—who realized suddenly that he had been moved.

He scrambled up the side of the down, desperate for a chance at catching up to Papillon—he had to at least make his case against rejection—but at the crest of the slope he slowed, his feet heavy with dismay.

Papillon wasn’t going to be angry. Papillon was dead.

Numb, Nino approached the corpse, checking it for signs of life despite its obvious state. He shook it wordlessly, even slapping it around some—but there was no response.

Nino mulled over his options, considering going to check on Alya—Ladybug had said she was alive, hadn’t she?—but as he turned his head towards the coast he saw a column of hounds swarming across the moor.

Swallowing, Nino turned and ran.

He only stopped when he reached the coast, his pounding headache worsening into a debilitating throb that was a cold reminder of his limited supply of medicine. Without Papillon, and his stock, Nino’s days were numbered. While this headache was not a symptom of his size, it was only a matter of time before those returned, leaving him useless and, worse, a burden on whatever establishment dared take him in.

What had Papillon said to do? Head back to Florin? Stay in Guilder?

He’d said to kill the woman in red, and Nino hadn’t, and now he was dead, and Nino himself was as good as. Why did he never listen? Why did he try to think for himself when all it ever did was leave him stranded and alone, a stupid boy with stupid muscles and a stupid brain and no friends?

Nino groaned, holding his head in his hands. He’d really done it now.

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Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) for Marinette, the healing process was a slow and laborious affair. Her bandages were replaced twice a day, and the salve reapplied wherever it was deemed necessary. She was given water after each of these occasions, as well as along with her thrice daily meals—bread in the morning, a thin soup in the afternoon, and some kind of meat in the evening. It was impressive fare for a dungeon, and when the unearthly guard asked if it was satisfactory she could reply honestly that it was.

She was unshackled several times a day and advised to exercise, to prevent clotting in her blood. Though her hands and feet were bound together with metal cables, Marinette used these occasions to unabashedly explore the dungeon. She ran her fingers along the stone walls, inspected the tree roots running through the rough-hewn ceiling, rattled at the grate over a small channel of water. When she had exhausted the smaller avenues, she turned her attention to the dungeon as a whole.

It was respectable, certainly—the narrow stream gave Marinette the impression it had once been a natural cave, expanded by someone or something to better fit human inhabitants. A huge tree’s root system formed the bulk of the ceiling. The markings in the stone were made with two different kinds of tools, and the fixtures were placed nearer one kind of toolmark than the other. The devices were rudimentary dungeon fare—her table, a whipping post, stocks, a rack—the only unusual thing was that everything seemed new. It led Marinette to believe that either the dungeon itself was new, which was unlikely given the condition of the wraithlike guard, or none of its prisoners lasted long enough to wear things down.

It was a mutli-leveled chamber, the biggest and lowest tier being the one where Marinette spent most of her time, containing the channel and the majority of the fittings.

The second level, up a few stairs, maybe at chest height if she were to stand against it, was where the wraithlike woman dwelt. She never left the dungeon, as far as Marinette could tell—she spent most of the day copying data meticulously into a huge, leather-bound book. Her bed was under the roots, near the fire, where she prepared the food. She ate the same as Marinette every day, though indulged in some wine here and there. She never drank enough to incapacitate herself, and had in fact offered to share, but Marinette thought it best not to partake, under the circumstances. She needed her wits about her.

The third level was much higher, up a narrow staircase to the only door, entirely iron and bolted from the outside. There was a sliding window in it that was always kept shut, except for when food was passed through.

Marinette’s primary concern was biding her time. She needed to heal before she attempted an escape with so many unknown variables—as it was, she could take out the wraith, but then what? She’d have a few more hours a day unshackled, a soft bed, and no food. There was no lock to pick on the inside of the door, and the hinges were inaccessible, so unless she could devise a plan to circumvent the exit without her usual tools, she needed to be at full strength.

The channel which ran through the cavern seemed to be her best bet, although there was a grate on both ends. Where the water entered the cavern, she could see a ways up into a tunnel of sorts, presumably leading to a source. Since there was air above the water, she was confident she wouldn’t drown along that avenue, even if it should happen to only lead to an underground spring. Worst case scenario, she’d get stuck in a cave and they’d have to come in after her, which would presumably present other opportunities for escape.

Or they’d just leave her in there to starve to death.

Could go either way, really.

She focused what time she could on filing away at the grate with the woven wires linking her wrists together. It was difficult to do without drawing suspicion from the wraith, and she inevitably became soaked by the water, but it was the only plan she had, and with every hair’s breadth filed away she grew closer to freedom.

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The doors to Adrien’s chambers were mahogany, carved with vines and flowers around inlaid panels of gold foil. The hinges were well-oiled, but the doors were heavy enough that the posts creaked under their weight when opened, thereby alerting Adrien to any intrusion.

He had retired to his bedroom following a long afternoon of being paraded around Florin City, waxy skin bronzed in the beaming sun. It made Adrien feel rather like a piece of chicken that had been sent back for being undercooked, so it was with no small amount of irritation that he lifted his head from the window frame at the sound of an unwelcome visitor.

“I would appreciate it if you knocked—” he began, pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, walking into his sitting area only to stop abruptly when he saw the Countess running her six blade-thin fingers over his desk.

There wasn’t anything in that desk that was his—frankly, there wasn’t much of anything in the castle that he felt a connection to—but his irritation flared at the sight. He wasn’t especially prone to being territorial, but seeing his least favorite member of the court sifting through his belongings like she owned the place made him feel belittled in a way her snide comments rarely did.

“Is there something you want?” he asked stiffly, years of etiquette training quashing his instinct to tell her to get out.

The Countess looked up at him, her sharp features impassive. She abandoned his trinkets with a disinterested air, rounding the couch between them with leisurely, narrow steps.

He watched with wary eyes, stock-still as she prowled around him, circling him like she were inspecting an animal. She stopped uncomfortably close to him, so near he could feel her breath on his collar. She was tall compared to most, nearly Adrien’s height, and what she lacked in inches she made up for in force of personality. He glared at her, unwilling to back up despite his discomfort, too tired and irritated to give her that measure of satisfaction.

“Is there something you want?” he repeated through gritted teeth.

She smiled coyly, leaned forward, and kissed him.

His first reaction was shock. He went rigid beneath her, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t responding, but the feeling of her lips against his was too forceful, too harsh.

Too sharp.

Everything about her was too sharp. Adrien finally tried to pull away, only to be reeled in by six fingers against the back of his neck, sharp nails scraping the base of his scalp, a second hand pressed too firmly into his chest. His mouth curled away in disgust, his own hands pushed futilely against her shoulders—he didn’t have the leverage he needed—and when he made a noise of protest, she bit him.

The pain helped clear his head, lancing through the shock and confusion with a sudden dose of fear. He shoved with all the strength he could muster, not budging her an inch, but breaking her grip on his spine. He staggered backwards, putting as much space between them as he could in a few short steps, chest heaving as adrenaline coursed belatedly through his veins.

The Countess didn’t appear perturbed in the slightest that he’d escaped her clutches; in fact, she looked rather smug. Her breathing hadn’t changed at all, and the only visible evidence of her assault was his blood on her lip.

“I wanted to remind you of your circumstances,” she said smoothly, her tongue running along the stain, returning her completely to her usual appearance.

“…What?” asked Adrien, voice hoarse with stress. His pulse throbbed in his lip, leaving him hyperaware of just how fast it was running. Though he was breathing harder than ever, it felt more difficult, like a weight was sitting on his chest. Like her sharp fingers were still biting into his ribs.

“Your circumstances,” she repeated, gesturing around the room. “You see, everything around you is a privilege. A gift from Her Highness Princess Chloé, to ensure you live in comfort, wanting for nothing. She—and to a lesser extent, I—have saved you from a life toiled away in obscurity and squalor. Your former employers were given the very best, you were educated, clothed, fed—and yet, it’s not enough for you, is it?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“Ever since that kidnapping business, you have ceased to be her Highness’s perfect doll. You have become insufferably emotive, spoiled countless occasions with your sullen conversation, and you’ve let your appearance—the only necessary thing about you—go fallow. I have had quite enough of your ungrateful attitude. You know—and I know—that what transpired in the Fire Swamp was not enough to put that woman from your thoughts, so let me make this perfectly clear: You are never going to see her again. You have chosen this life: Rich, pampered, with a beautiful fiancée who will one day be Queen, and anyone would envy it. The Dread Pirate Ladybug wants nothing more to do with you.”

Adrien’s breathing, still heavier than it ought to be, hitched in his chest.

“She made it perfectly clear how she felt about your betrayal, and made no secret of her contempt. She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you. If you decide that a life of luxury isn’t enough for you, there will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls,” said the Countess, chartreuse eyes flat with distaste. “You are alone here, Your Highness. With the removal of your former employers, you have no one. Either you behave yourself appropriately, or privileges will be removed accordingly.”

She returned to his desk, plucking a single orange lily from one of his vases, and left without another word.

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Marinette didn’t stir as the door to her cell opened. She was restrained at the moment, and until she knew the identity of this mysterious visitor, it was in her best interest to be quiet and unobtrusive.

“I trust things have been going smoothly,” said the intolerably familiar voice of the Countess.

“Oh yes, Lady Rossi,” the wraith answered, sincere and proper as anything. Marinette could practically see her scattered curtsy. “Her wounds have healed enough to begin tonight, if you wish.”

“Excellent,” said the Countess, “make the necessary preparations. I’ll have the prisoner brought down.”

Marinette stirred in spite of herself. The prisoner? Wasn’t she the prisoner?

The Countess relayed slightly muffled instructions to someone (presumably a guard) stationed outside the door, then approached Marinette where she lay strapped to her table.

“I do know you’re awake,” said the Countess, pulling Marinette’s shirt away from her skin to examine the mostly-healed injury on her back. Though the scratches had been deep, the wounds themselves were narrow and closed quickly.

Marinette fought the instinct to tense beneath the ministrations. “I wasn’t exactly pretending,” she said instead. “There just isn’t much point in opening one’s eyes when one happens to have a choice between ‘view of table’ and ‘view of rock’.”

“You’re right,” agreed the Countess, and to Marinette’s surprise, she produced a set of keys. “We had better adjust you. It looks like your back can handle it.”

She unlocked Marinette’s hands, and the urge to attack her flared powerfully—but the wraith was standing by with a fierce glare, and as slimy as the Countess might be, she wasn’t foolish enough to unleash Marinette with no plan.

“Thank you,” said Marinette, turning and rubbing at her wrists. “I take it we’re going to be making use of one of the other devices?”

“Oh, no,” said the Countess, with a small smile. “Not for you. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, you know.”

“Have I?” Marinette asked idly, as she was pressed back against the same table, this time facing out into the room. Her arms were bound by her sides now, hanging loosely on either side of her. A belt of sorts was fastened around her waist, and her ankles were secured; the entire table ratcheted downwards, so that it was almost vertical.

“Oh yes,” the Countess confirmed, sounding almost bored as she adjusted everything. “That boy has become downright insufferable.”

“Kidnapping will do that to you.” Marinette kept her voice and expression carefully neutral under the Countess’s narrowed gaze, leery of revealing too much. She still wasn’t certain what was intended for her, but if Adrien was at any risk, she had to downplay her feelings.

“It wasn’t the kidnapping,” the Countess disagreed. “It was you. I have it on good authority that he was behaving perfectly well until at least your little tea party with Papillon—well, barring one awfully thoughtless escape attempt.”

“Was he supposed to just sit quietly and—” Marinette’s dry retort turned to ash in her mouth. “…Whose authority?”

The Countess only smiled.

Marinette lunged, as far as her bonds would allow her, getting within a few inches of the Countess, who didn’t so much as flinch. She strained against the cuffs on her wrists, leather straps creaking from the sudden abuse, but to no avail. “Countess,” she rasped, voice shaking with ill-suppressed rage and desperation. “Whose authority?”

“The proper form of address for Her Grace is Lady Rossi,” said the wraith, looking mortally offended, a white shadow behind her smirking benefactor.

“Oh, there’s no need for all that formality,” said the Countess, turning her smile over her shoulder. “After all, we haven’t been calling her ‘Captain,’ have we?”

Marinette’s eyes darted from the wraith to the Countess, struggling against her rising panic.

They knew who she was.

It could be worse, right? Piracy was executable sure, but from the sound of things she was in for a lot more than just death as it was. Yeah. It could be worse. It was really more how they knew that she was concerned about. Was ‘the prisoner’ one of Papillon’s henchmen? She hadn’t thought they would talk. They had both been so willing to help her for honor’s sake.

Her confusion, however, paled in comparison to her captor’s apparent connection to the team hired to assassinate the love of her life.

“Did you hire him?” she managed, as calmly as she could.

“Whom?” asked the Countess, the picture of innocence. “Papillon? Who’s to say? Certainly not him. You took care of that, didn’t you?”

“He took care of that himself,” said Marinette, gritting her teeth.

“Have I touched a nerve?” asked the Countess, smiling again. “Here I thought the Dread Pirate Ladybug was renowned for taking no prisoners. Or have you changed your tune over the past twenty years?”

Marinette didn’t answer.

“Did you think no one would notice?” asked the Countess, turning away from her and walking to the wraith, who passed a sheet of parchment obligingly on. “For the past… two years and four months, the Dread Pirate Ship Boucles has attacked exclusively vessels of the state.”

“Wow,” said Marinette, “That’s quite a coincidence. Perhaps she was going for the ships with the shiniest hulls.”

“This is after an eight month period of attacking mixed vessels, following a seven year period of exclusively mercantile victims.”

“So what you’re saying is, she’s going senile.”

“What I’m saying is, the DPS Boucles is no longer sailing for profit, but to further a political agenda.”

Marinette laughed breathily, meeting the Countess’s eyes with an almost daring smirk. “And what has this to do with me, Lady Rossi?”

“Well, the punishment for treason is of course, execution,” said the Countess. She didn’t so much as turn when the door to the cell opened, and a middle-aged man in shackles was escorted down the staircase by a guard easily half his age. “As is the punishment for piracy. So for you personally? Not much. If, however, you possess as large a role in this little rebellion as I suspect, it means your crew is out there scrambling to piece things together without you. Why, there hasn’t been a single attack since your capture.”

“Capture is a strong word,” said Marinette, watching the new prisoner be tied the wrong way to the whipping post, his arms behind him, bewildered face pointing in their direction.

“I suppose ‘surrender,’ is probably more accurate,” said the Countess, with a simpering smile.

“What makes you so certain that the Boucles is a part of the rebellion at all? Perhaps the merchants have simply upped their security, while the state hasn’t.”

“Oh, little things,” said the Countess. She unfurled a bit more of the scroll in her hands, which evidently contained statistics. “I’ve had Sabrina here keeping an eye on things, and it is primarily a matter of timing. The Boucles strikes like clockwork, just as the ships get into open waters, having apparently had prior knowledge of the vessels’ departure. Even in cases where the journey is kept only amongst high-ranking government officials.”

“So—a spy, looking to make a quick buck.”

“A spy, looking to weaken Florin from within.”

The guard, a burly youth with no helmet over his dark hair, finished securing the man to the post, saluted, and left the chamber without a word.

“There is also the matter of the periods without attacks,” the Countess continued, nodding at the wraith—‘Sabrina’—which set the latter scrambling off to her table. “They coincide remarkably with assaults on Florin City itself, and unrest in the countryside.”

“Unrest?” echoed Marinette, voice caught between innocence and confusion.

“Revolts. Uprisings. Royal agents being attacked while on duty; their posts raided and emptied, their assets distributed illegally amongst the people.”

“Are you suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to do charity?”

“I’m suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to incite a rebellion.”

The wraith returned, bearing a small canister which appeared to be fashioned from a quill and some kind of bladder, offering it to the Countess on an open palm. The Countess accepted it, unclipping a small copper vial from her belt and holding it up to draw a thimbleful of liquid. It gleamed tar-black in the lamplight, thick as quicksilver; it did not stick to the inside of the quill, which was left filmy but transparent against its illumination.

“The incident with Papillon was akuma powder, no?” asked the Countess, recapping the vial while the wraith held the peculiar instrument gingerly in front of her.

“It was,” said Marinette, keeping a wary eye on both women.

“One of the deadlier poisons, certainly.” The Countess took the instrument from the wraith, lips quirking upwards in amusement. “Perhaps even the deadliest the natural world has to offer.”

“Is this the part where you dramatically reveal you’ve created an even deadlier poison, killing me instantly?” asked Marinette, deadpan.

“No, this is more of… a venom, I suppose. To be injected intravenously,” said the Countess.

“What, like a snake?”

“Or a spider,” supplied the wraith.

“I’ve been calling it Cataclysm, myself,” said the Countess, as though confessing a great secret. She turned to the restrained man behind her, whose shaking was visible even from Marinette’s vantage. “It’s an apoptoxin I’ve been working to develop. You see, we’ve been conducting trials here and there, and they’ve all been satisfactory—but at the end of the day, one can only learn so much from an animal. Well—I suppose we’re all animals, in a way. Wouldn’t you agree, Xavier?”

The prisoner trembled. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he managed, “I—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. They’ve every right—”

“Xavier here was arrested for feeding birds in Florin Square,” the Countess explained, looking back at Marinette over her shoulder. “He’d been told not to, you see, but the poor dear couldn’t help himself, could you, Xavier?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Xavier. He licked his cracked lips. Marinette saw a spark of hope spring to life in his eyes at the Countess’s evident understanding. “They were terribly hungry, Your Grace. No creature deserves to starve when there’s food enough for all.”

“And they arrested him!” said the Countess, as though she couldn’t believe it. “For sharing his own bread with a few pigeons. When he couldn’t pay the fine, they sentenced him to community service; and here we are.”

“You conduct your community service in dungeons, Lady Rossi?”

“I conduct most services in dungeons, Captain Ladybug.”

Xavier started at the name, looking to Marinette with wide, curious eyes, and the Countess approached him with a conciliatory pat on his shoulder.

“We’re just going to do a little experiment. Please do be honest about how this feels,” said the Countess to her prisoner, whose eyes were now shining with relief.

Marinette stiffened.

“Wait—” she began, leaning forward, “wait, there’s no need for that, you know how it works—”

“—Sabrina here is going to make a small incision in your arm… Yes, just there, thank you Sabrina—”

“—Countess, this is meaningless, you can’t—you can’t do this! Just for feeding birds?—”

“Oh, Ladybug,” said the Countess, looking up from Xavier’s arm with apparent surprise. “This isn’t to punish him. Think of what we’ll learn! The things we’ve been discovering about apoptosis are extraordinary.”

“Then… then this isn’t just… it’s not you breaking eggs?” asked Marinette, sagging a little in her bonds. Perhaps she had misunderstood. The word toxin had made her jump to conclusions. It was strange that they should conduct their business here, but…

The Countess smiled. “How I feel about the experiment is irrelevant. The important thing is, we’re taking notes.”

She squeezed the bladder, and Xavier went rigid. His face flashed white, then red, and finally settled on washed-out green.

“You see, Ladybug,” she said, her voice prickling like the hair on the back of a neck, “this isn’t to punish him. It’s to punish you.”

Xavier screamed.

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“I can’t do this,” announced Adrien, bursting into the room without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Chloé, her hair whipping behind her as she wheeled around to face him. She was dressed in her usual flowing white, holding a cornucopia brimming with flowers in the crook of one arm; he’d interrupted her in the middle of one of her portrait sessions.

“I can’t—uh—” he stammered, looking between his fiancée and her bewildered painter. She wouldn’t even hear him out if he embarrassed her. “I… I beg a private audience, dear Princess. You… look… beautiful?”

It sounded more like a question than a compliment, but the Princess preened all the same, flashing the painter a simpering and apologetic smile. “Do excuse us, won’t you?” she crooned. “It seems the Marquis can no longer contain his affections.”

Blushing, the painter stammered his canned words of parting and showed himself out in a flurry of half-formed bows.

The instant the door closed behind him, the smile dropped from Chloé’s face.

“What on earth could be so important?” she snapped, setting the cornucopia with more force than strictly necessary on the table behind her, which was laden with similar tokens of wealth and power. “I’ve told you not to interrupt me!”

“I… I know, and I’m sorry, I just… I can’t do this,” he said lamely.

It had all seemed a grand idea in his room, sweeping dramatically into the royal chambers, tendering his resignation as prince-to-be, riding off into the sunset to find his true love, or at least her family—but here, presented with the stark reality of a very spoiled princess who was occasionally rather fond of him, he felt… almost guilty. It wasn’t Chloé’s fault he was in love with someone else. True, she was something of a brat, but no one had ever taught her any different. She wasn’t malicious or anything.

“Do what? Let me sit through a modeling session in peace for once?” asked Chloé, though her irritation seemed to be fading to resignation. “What is it now, Adrien? Have you recalled some other woman you’re madly in love with?”

“Just the one,” he supplied with a weak attempt at a smile.

The Princess loosed a heavy sigh, turning from the table and crossing the room to the abandoned easel, staring almost forlornly at her unfinished portrait. Adrien came to stand beside her without a word.

“They never can capture it all, can they?” she asked him after a long moment. “The opulence, the radiance. I’ve thousands of portraits now, and none of them are ever as beautiful as they’re supposed to be.”

He looked at the canvas. To him, it seemed a good likeness: The fullness of her lashes, the haughty tilt of her chin, the elegant waves of hair.

“I’m never as beautiful as I’m supposed to be,” she said, and he felt almost sorry for her, despite the petty dissatisfaction in her voice. “No one can really capture it, can they? How beautiful I am?”

“I suppose not,” he said at length, when she turned to him for an answer.

“No one can ever capture how beautiful you are, either,” she said, sighing again, “You see? You’re the most beautiful man in all of Florin, probably in all the world, and that’s why you’re the only one good enough for me, and I’m the only one good enough for you. Whatever idea is rattling around in that handsome head of yours, lay it to rest, Adrien, please.”

“I just can’t go through with it,” said Adrien, grimacing. “I can’t, Your Highness, and you shouldn’t. You have to see that we’re… that this isn’t worth it.”

“I told you when this all started that I didn’t expect you to love me,” she reminded him, “That I didn’t even want you to.”

“And I told you I would never love another, and I meant it. Even when I thought she was… was dead, I loved her, and I love her now, and I always will. It’s useless to even pretend anymore. I love her. That’s—that’s how it is.”

Chloé’s face twisted into something unpleasant and bitter. “I told you I didn’t want you to love me, but I’m beginning to change my mind on that, if we’re being honest. What’s so great about her, Adrien? What has she got that I haven’t? I’m rich and powerful and beautiful, and she’s… what? A shabby little sailor?” She raised a hand when he opened his mouth to object. “No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s her heart, or her mind, or whatever. I can’t do anything about that and you know it. I’m talking about assets. I have everything.”

“It’s not about assets,” said Adrien, shifting uncomfortably beside her. “It’s… it’s not about anything. I love her as much for the things she lacks as the things she has. She has a good heart and a good mind and a good whatever, yes, but it’s… it’s stuff like the way she makes decisions too quickly, or how she holds her fork weird, or how she flails her arms around when she’s panicking.”

“You love her for being less than you deserve?”

“I love her for being her,” he corrected. “I don’t deserve anyone. No one is entitled to another person.”

“Well, I am,” said Chloé, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I deserve the best, and you’re the best, so you’re mine.”

“You don’t even like me,” said Adrien.

“I like you better than most men,” she disagreed, “although granted, you’ve become even worse since that kidnapping business. Here I thought the moping was annoying.”

“But you don’t love me. You’ll never love me, and I’ll never love you. You want to live the rest of our lives like this? Ranging between tolerating and being irritated with one another? Forever?”

Chloé didn’t say anything.

“What about when we’re married?” he asked, plunging recklessly on. “You can’t tell me the prospect brings you any joy. The wedding, perhaps; you do love parties. But look me in the eye and tell me you want to kiss me, for anything other than show. Tell me you want to spend the rest of your life trying to find a painter who can make me look the way I’m ‘supposed’ to. Tell me you want children with hair like crystallized honey and faces like angels’, whose parents can’t bear to look at them.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, Adrien!” she snapped at him. “I have to get married. I have to have an heir. It’s the law. It’s my family’s lineage. I have to.”

“It doesn’t have to be with me,” he said quietly.

“What, you just don’t want to be dragged down with me?” she spat. “You think I’m going to be unhappy? I have everything I could possibly want! It’s you who wants to drag me down. You’re so set on pining and mooning after that silly girl that you’re refusing to see how much better off you are without her. With me.”

“So cut me loose!” he shouted, rising to the challenge in her voice, “If I’m so annoying then just break the engagement, find someone else who will appreciate you. Someone who would be thrilled to marry you and love you and give you an heir. It doesn’t have to be me!”

“Yes it does!” she insisted. “You’re the best, and I only take the best! Lila looked all over the country, and—”

“That’s another thing,” he growled, fists clenching at his sides at the mention of the Countess. His tongue ran over the cut in his lip. “If I ever see her again, I’m going to cause a scene. Mark my words.”

“What do you mean ‘if,’ of course you’re going to see her again, she’s going to be at dinner tonight—”

“Then I’m not. I mean it.”

“Adrien, stop being a child! I know you two like to harass one another, but—”

“Harass?” he repeated incredulously. “She full-on assaulted me this afternoon! She bit my face!”

Chloé’s expression darkened. “I’ll have a word with her. She knows better than anyone to leave your face alone.”

Adrien stared at her in mounting disbelief. “My—What about the rest of me?” he demanded.

“What?”

“Do you not care that your best friend kissed your fiancé against his will?”

“She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t rile her up like that,” said Chloé, frowning.

Every drop of sympathy Adrien had for the Princess evaporated instantly.

“I can’t marry you,” he said, biting back the desire to shriek his frustrations to the ceiling. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. He couldn’t do this anymore. “I would… I’d rather die.”

“Fine!” snapped Chloé. “Fine. We’ll… compromise.”

“A compromise between marrying you and not marrying you?”

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll go and find this woman of yours, wherever she’s gallivanted off to without you, and we’ll find out if she still wants to be with you—”

“She does.”

“—and if she does, fine, fine, you can go off and get married or whatever, but if she doesn’t, you marry me. Alright?”

“Even if she doesn’t, I don’t—”

“Consider marrying me, then. As an alternative to death.”

Adrien considered. The Countess’s words rang in his ears.

She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you.

There will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls.

He knew it wasn’t true. He knew. The Countess loved to lie. It was probably her second favorite hobby, after causing pain. Yet her voice stuck in his mind like a smoke cat’s claw, hooked and sharp as the rest of her.

This is true love, he reminded himself, closing his eyes. Marinette will always come for me.

“Deal,” he said at last, blinking down at the Princess. “Deal.”

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It took Xavier a long time to die.

By the end of it, Marinette was exhausted. It had become rapidly apparent that there wasn’t anything she could do for the man, but she had persisted in struggling against her bonds on the off chance she could at least provide him some comfort.

Her wrists were chafed and bleeding from the biting edges of her cuffs, and her legs could no longer bear her weight, leaving her sagging in defeat and despair as she listened to his pained, rattling breaths.

Through it all, the Countess watched. She took notes and passed them to the wraith at intervals, presumably to be copied into the larger book. Her eyes bore into Marinette like drills, leaving her feeling raw and exposed and far too vulnerable.

Finally the only sound in the stone chamber was the scratching of her captors’ quills. Slowly, Marinette raised her head from where it drooped against her chest, staring with dull eyes at the lifeless corpse across from her.

“Well,” said the Countess, from her seat at the desk, “that was illuminating.”

Marinette turned her head to look at her. Her eyes wouldn’t move the way she wanted them to; everything felt heavy.

The Countess got to her feet, walking leisurely down the stairs to where Xavier lay sprawled. His face was still twisted in a ghost of the agony he’d spent hours screaming to end.

There were few apparent indicators of what had killed him; everything visible he had done to himself. There were long scores in his arms from where he had raked his fingernails, as if trying to claw the apoptoxin from his veins; his neck and shoulders were bruised from thrashing against the floor and whipping post; the whites of his eyes, most chilling of all, had been stained crimson—he had burst several blood vessels with the force of his screams.

Marinette watched the Countess catalogue what injuries she could find, six narrow fingers almost caressing the dead man’s face as she opened his mouth, lifted his eyelids, turned his jaw this way and that, and allowed herself to feel what little she could bear.

She felt responsible. She knew it wasn’t her fault, not really—the Countess would have killed the man anyway, and she would have experimented with Cataclysm anyway. Her being there had likely changed only the location of the execution. And yet, what if? He was an innocent man, guilty only of caring too deeply for the local vermin. What if her coming here had facilitated his selection as guinea pig? What if it was her fault?

She felt sick. Sick and hurt and so, so tired. Her whole body ached from her attempts to reach Xavier, and tremored from aftershocks of witnessing the incident. Her pulse throbbed in her wrists, and dried blood stuck to the inside of her elbows in an irritating crust. She longed to sleep, but dreaded the terrors that doubtless awaited her.

She felt angry. Furious, even. That she, the Dread Pirate Ladybug, should be reduced to a spectator of whatever gruesome horror this vicious creature could conjure up—she wanted to rip free of her bonds and throttle her, watch the life drain from her eyes like she’d watched it drain from her victim’s.

And, despite her best efforts, she felt confused.

For all that she loathed the Countess, the woman certainly did have a way of getting into people’s heads. To track the attacks of the Boucles, and to interpret that data with such accuracy… it was like facing everything she had feared Papillon would be.

Discovering Marinette’s overdeveloped sense of justice had probably owed more to instinct than facts. A pirate renowned for being merciless would hardly strike anyone as the ideal candidate for a ‘punish by killing people in front of’ experiment, yet the Countess seemed to have stumbled upon it all the same.

The silver lining was that the Countess had overplayed her hand—Marinette was now certain she had orchestrated Adrien’s kidnapping. She was somewhat less certain of whether the Countess had planned his assassination, as she had to have been aware of Papillon’s bumbling bravado—but surely even she couldn’t have accounted for Marinette’s own intervention. She may have intended for Adrien to escape, or be rescued in some other manner; why she would want Adrien dead, Marinette couldn’t decide.

In any case, the Countess’s motivations were unlikely to have an impact on what she did to Marinette, so it was all secondary to her main concern: Escape.

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Adrien hesitated to even go to dinner the eve of the wedding, but hunger won out in the end; the kitchen staff had been sneaking him food for the past few days, but tonight had been forestalled by the installation of a bodyguard at his door, a hulking but entirely silent man who glowered at anyone venturing too near.

So with a growling stomach, Adrien lingered in the doorway of the royal dining chamber, peering with unabashed suspicion into the room.

“Sit down,” the Princess told him impatiently from the head of the table, where she sat in her father’s place. The aging King had been seated at her right hand, and his attendant (the congenial butler whose name Adrien still didn’t know) beside him. She gestured impatiently to the empty chair at her left, usually occupied by the Countess, who seemed mercifully absent. Perhaps Chloé had actually listened to him for once.

“You’re in Lila’s place, she’s working late tonight,” she added, when he didn’t immediately comply. “She says she has a lead on the rebellion, but I don’t know that I believe it, to tell you the truth.”

Gritting his teeth, Adrien took his seat without a word. Chloé prattled on, oblivious.

“I suppose she’s more qualified than I to identify rebels, what with all those ridiculous accounts she keeps of everything, but she doesn’t know what to do with them, the silly thing. She gets so excited about her little experiments that she loses her head entirely, and then we’re back where we started.”

“Lose her head!” the King chimed in, smiling in excitement towards his daughter. She sighed impatiently at the interruption. “Are we having a beheading?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the butler, “at least, not a public one. You know how the Countess gets on.”

“Is—is she killing people?” Adrien asked, drawing back in surprise.

“Of course she is,” said Chloé, rolling her eyes. “What did you think I meant by experiments, Adrien? Try to keep up.”

He swallowed thickly, looking between her and King Bourgeois, who looked enchanted at the possibility of an execution. He supposed it wasn’t really… a shock. He knew better than most what the Countess was capable of, and yet—he hadn’t expected that the royal family would be so emphatically on board.

“It’s only ever criminals, anyway,” said Chloé, waving a hand in dismissal. “Rebels and pirates and things. Nobody important.”

“…Pirates?” Adrien echoed hoarsely.

Chloé blinked, seeming to catch herself. “Well yes, but not your pirate, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, staring at her. She frowned uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“That reminds me. We’ve, ah—that is to say, I arranged for our ships to scour the Channel,” she told him. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for thinking it of her, but I didn’t imagine she’d stray far. Either the woman had disavowed you entirely and fled the armada, or she was so stubborn she’d be lurking quite nearby for a chance to steal you away, despite your stated hopes.”

“Of course,” said Adrien. He looked away, down to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Marinette wouldn’t flee from an armada, he knew, but she might well have fled from his cruelty. If—if he was right, and she did still care for him, then she would be as close as she dared, regardless of his hopes. She’d stay until she was assured this was what he wanted. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Would she?

“…Adrien, the ships have returned,” said Chloé, with what passed for gentleness. He raised his head sharply, staring into her cold blue eyes. He imagined for a moment he even saw a glint of sympathy. “I was right about her staying nearby, but… She wouldn’t come.”

She pulled something from the folds of her dress and laid it on the table with a soft click.

Adrien stared down at the necklace he had made Marinette when they were children, and the room seemed to narrow to that single point.

“I’m sorry,” said Chloé. Her voice sounded far away, or maybe it was just that Adrien’s head was suddenly full of cotton.

He didn’t feel the emotions he knew she was waiting for, not out of spite, but because they simply weren’t there. It sort of felt like he wasn’t there—but it was his eyes and no one else’s locked on the smooth, dark stones, tracing the schiller as it flickered with the candlelight.

He focused on finding his lungs and took a slow, mechanical breath. He felt the wood of his chair against his fingertips. He listened for the sound of his heartbeat, abnormally loud against his muffled ears.

He was almost queasy, with a thick film sitting along his tongue, but as he came back into himself all he really felt was acceptance. He was almost reassured.

“No, you aren’t,” said Adrien, when he could speak. “But it’s alright. She’ll come.”

“Adrien—”

His hand closed over the necklace, and he stood from his chair without waiting to be excused. “You don’t get it,” he said simply. “Marinette will always come for me.”

“Adrien, don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “She’s told them she doesn’t want you anymore.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Adrien, sit down—”

“Why?” He barked out a cold laugh, without a drop of humor. “So you can lie to me? Try to break my heart and snap me up when I’m in pieces? It won’t work, Your Highness. You can craft all the stories you like, give me all the evidence you can produce, but I won’t ever believe it. Marinette will always come for me.”

“She won’t!” said Chloé, exploding to her feet with a stamp of her golden slippers. “I’ve just told you she won’t! I am the one in charge here, Adrien! I sent the ships! And I am telling you, she doesn’t want you anymore! So you are going to marry me tomorrow, because I am rich, I am powerful, I am beautiful, and most importantly, because I said so!”

Adrien stared at her for a long, measuring moment. He took in her perfectly styled hair, the color of crystalized honey, and her intricately embroidered gown that drew out the color of her eyes like sapphires held up to the sky. He looked at her clenched fists and her pearl-white teeth, bared in a snarl.

“You are rich and powerful,” he allowed, “but if this is how you live your life, you’ll never be as beautiful as you’re ‘supposed’ to be.”

He walked out without another word.

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Marinette had never been one to idle. Even after she heard the news of Adrien’s engagement and was overtaken by a wave of listless apathy, she had kept herself busy managing the affairs of the ship. She forced herself into action wherever possible, resting only when pressed by her crew, determined to work off whatever emotion was most recently troubling her.

So in the wake of Xavier’s death, she was galvanized into officially attempting her escape.

The body was removed following the Countess’s examination, though whether for disposal or further study had yet to be decided. The Countess apparently wanted to observe the effects of Cataclysm on decomposition, citing some experiment she’d done with mercury and arsenic.

Luckily for Marinette, this meant a guaranteed day or so without her intense scrutiny, and she intended to take advantage of it. While the wraith studiously copied the Countess’s notes into the leather-bound book on her desk, Marinette put every fiber of muscle in her body into sawing at the grate in the channel.

It was slow, grueling work. She fought to keep her breathing quiet and even, glancing over her shoulder every minute or so at the diligent wraith. Marinette was being allowed extra time unshackled to keep her from being a distraction, which worked just fine for her.

In the dark of the dungeon, the only way to tell time was to keep track of how low the fire burned in the hearth. Marinette had been filing away at the grate for two and a half logs before she made it most of the way through the first bar; three to make it through the second. The third bar she sawed through even less than the first, and after resting her arms for half a log or so, she began to pull.

It would have been faster to kick it in, certainly, but she couldn’t risk that the clanging would alert the wraith to her activity. She was lucky that there was only one crossbar, likely to have been added to the grate for spacing rather than bulk.

This was their own fault, really; if you furnish a dungeon with shoddy equipment, you’re going to lose a few prisoners here and there.

The bars were made of a more flexible metal than she had anticipated from the oxidization—she had expected iron, but it was closer to tin than anything. Snapping the rest of the way through was the work of a moment.

Slowly, trying not to make a splash, she bent the grate upwards around the crossbar, peeling it back as if skinning an animal. Her shoulders, sore from straining against her restraints yesterday, screamed in protest, but she persevered. The metal bit into her hands, her cuffs bit into her wrists, the rock bed of the stream bit into her knees, but she was doing something. She was taking action.

Marinette levered out and lowered herself into the water, having to turn her head to keep her mouth clear, and began to wriggle through—until six blade-thin fingers caught in her hair and pulled.

The Countess hauled Marinette bodily from the water, keeping her off balance with a few well-placed wrenches of her skull, yanking on her loose black hair like a misbehaving dog might get its leash wrenched.

“You sneaky thing!” she laughed, genuine humor coloring her normally frigid tone. “Why, another minute or so and you’d have been off like a fish!”

Marinette was, to put it mildly, exhausted. She’d spent the better part of yesterday trying to get to Xavier, gotten less than a wink of sleep, and then close to a full day of sawing through solid metal. She was soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and weary as only a captive can be. So she didn’t really think to check her surroundings; all that mattered in that moment was the Countess, and escape.

“Never much cared for fish,” said Marinette conversationally, breathing hard through her nose to dispel the water she’d been dunked in. “They’re a little too slippery.”

It wasn’t that she was desperate—she was just very cranky.

She twisted suddenly in the Countess’s grasp, jabbing an elbow into her ribs and turning to face her, bulling immediately into her diaphragm, knocking them both sprawling. The Countess half released her, wheezing, still tangled in her hair but no longer clinging, and Marinette took the opportunity to pull free, aching muscles falling automatically into familiar holds, knees pinning the Countess to the floor before either had even caught their breath.

She drew back like a cobra, grabbing the Countess’s hair in turn and using the purchase to slam the back of her head into the cold floor of the dungeon, teeth bared in a snarl as she fought to deflect flailing arms.

The Countess writhed savagely beneath her, her own teeth stained red where they’d sliced into her lip, her eyes wild and wide, but without a trace of fear.

Marinette punched her in the face.

Distantly she remembered she was supposed to keep her head during a fight, supposed to breathe through the surge of adrenaline and think about what she was doing—but all she could think was that she wanted to see the Countess be afraid. She wanted to hurt her. Kill her, not for the greater good, but just to watch her die. She wanted her to suffer like Xavier had suffered, like dozens—maybe even hundreds—of others had suffered at this woman’s hands. So she didn’t really care about keeping her head.

Maybe that was her mistake.

As she lifted the Countess’s head to slam it back into the ground, a stout fist buried itself in her kidney, and she relinquished her hold with a cry of pain, turning to her attacker.

The wraith.

Swearing, she staggered to her feet, kneeing the Countess in the stomach as she went. The wraith didn’t give her time to find her balance, launching herself in a full tackle that caught Marinette around the shoulders, forcing both of them back into the stream. The wraith came out on top, trying to force Marinette’s head under the water, and the fear in her eyes was so unmistakable it cleared Marinette’s head.

She didn’t have time for this.

For all that the wraith was built like miner, she was clearly inexperienced at fighting. Marinette slackened her grip, swallowing a lungful of air and letting her face be pushed under, and when the wraith began to relax, she struck.

With her full strength, she pulled her knees up to her chest and kicked the wraith away, flipping over and scrambling for the bent grating, intent to escape and return with weapons, or a plan, or something—

But the Countess barred the way, and she was anything but inexperienced.

Marinette ran her tongue over her upper lip, wiping water from her eyes with the back of her hand. It was tricky to do wearing the cuffs, one hand spread awkwardly wide in a warding gesture no one would heed. She needed a moment, just a moment, to come up with an angle of attack.

Then the wraith was on her again, wrapping a cord around her throat and forcing her back out of the water, back towards her shackles, and Marinette bucked wildly to throw her, to no avail. She slammed her elbow back into the wraith so many times she lost count, stamping for her feet and attempting a very poorly executed head-butt that failed to connect.

The wraith held her in place, absorbing the abuse like a sponge, unflinching, and the Countess hooked her back up to the table, dodging (most of) the flurry of blows. Her arms were pinioned to her sides, the cuffs dangling from her left wrist, and the Countess swore when they hit her in the struggle.

“That’s enough,” she hissed as they finally restrained her. “That’s enough!”

“Tapping out this early, Your Grace?” Marinette panted through a fierce grin. “Too bad. I’m just getting started. What do you say? Ever wanted only ten fingers?”

“Your circumstances are not as secure as you seem to believe, Captain,” said the Countess, and her eyes were smoldering with fury.

“Your cell isn’t as secure as you seem to believe—”

The Countess silenced her with a punch to the face, in the same place Marinette had punched her earlier.

“The only reason you were kept alive,” she spat, “the only reason you were fed, and doctored, and allowed free roam, was to keep you in the best of health, so that you might prove interesting. You are an experiment, and as such, will only be tended to in the event that you are useful. Do you understand?”

“Well, I guess the experiment’s failed, then,” Marinette spat back. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m never going to help you. You are the most despicable creature I have ever had the misfortune of encountering, and I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

The Countess’s eyes gleamed. The anger in them faded to a dull resentment, replaced by a vicious sheen. Marinette glared back at her.

“Well now,” said the Countess, “you have a point.”

“Your Grace?” the wraith asked in evident concern. Her face was a mess of blood and sweat, and the color made her cheeks look almost ruddy under her pallor.

“A wise combatant does not grant clemency to a formidable opponent,” said the Countess. “Fasten the auxiliary restraints.”

The wraith obliged immediately, while the Countess turned on her heel and strode to the desk. Marinette clamped her teeth around the building panic, counting her breaths, measuring her heartrate. She may have misunderstood. It may not be too late.

The Countess returned with the small chest containing the quill and bladder canister, passing it to the wraith and drawing the vial of Cataclysm from her belt, setting it atop the chest while she turned to Marinette.

There was a short knife in her six-fingered hand, and Marinette almost wished she would just kill her like a common criminal. She almost wished she could just die here, now, instantly, rather than face what she knew lay ahead.

But she couldn’t wish that; she had to live. She couldn’t die here in grimy dungeon, soaking wet and trussed up like a roasting ham. She had to get to Adrien.

She didn’t flinch as the Countess’s blade opened the crook of her elbow, but she did glare balefully at the woman. Marinette had always thought, privately, that Princess Chloé was too good an actress. That she couldn’t be half the evil mastermind the inner workings of her Kingdom revealed. She had a malicious streak, certainly, and she was well on her way to bankrupting the royal family with her exorbitant purchases, but she had not yet demonstrated a fraction of the cunning required to exploit and oppress an entire nation so thoroughly.

It had been easy to hate Chloé, thinking of her as someone who simply played the fool, who had stolen Adrien away and ruled in luxury with no regard for her people—but watching the Countess fill the device with her poison, more than five times as full as she had for Xavier, Marinette realized she had been right all along. The true evil of the Kingdom had been lurking in Chloé’s shadow from the beginning.

“Have you any last words?” asked the Countess, smiling as if they were sharing a joke.

“Only this,” said Marinette evenly. “One day very soon, justice will come again to Florin, and you will be stopped.”

“What a pity you won’t be here to enjoy the spoils,” said the Countess. “I’ll take good care of the Marquis for you, shall I?”

“His name is Adrien,” she answered, closing her eyes.

The Countess made her injection.

Marinette screamed.

She couldn’t help it. The hot pulse of her own blood running down her arm was eclipsed instantly by the feeling of Cataclysm coursing through her opened vein. Her hand went numb for a moment, stunned into an unfeeling haze before it caught ablaze, every nerve ending stabbing and shocking and tearing away at her. Her stomach revolted at the feeling, bile forcing its way into her throat as she contorted what little she could around the wound.

She stared at her hands in consternation when she could finally wrench her eyes back open. She couldn’t believe there was no external indication of her agony. A thousand needles forced their way through every inch of her being, and her flesh melted like candle wax over the searing heat of bones that had turned to molten lead.

She had to get out of here. She had to end this, to find Adrien and run as far from the Countess as they could get. There was too much left to do. There was too much left to see.

It wasn’t fair.

Her thoughts grew slow and heavy, circling the memory of Adrien’s face like a drain, and quietly, sluggishly—Marinette died.

#clare's writing #[wheezes]#miraculous ladybug #the dread pirate ladybug

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